^ 


^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/atcloserangeOOsmitiala 


Volume  XI 


HIS  EYES  CAUGHT  THE  OUTLINE  OF  A  GIRL. 


THE  NOVELS,  STORIES 
AND  SKETCHES  OF 
F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 


AT  CLOSE  RANGE    ^ 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S 
SONS^  NEW  YORK  j»  1905 


COPYRIGHT,    1905,    BY  CHARLES   SCRIBNBR's  SONS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


TO  MY  READERS 

On  my  writing-table  lies  a  magnifying  glass 
the  size  of  an  old  watch  crystal,  which  helps  me 
to  understand  the  mechanism  of  many  interest- 
ing things.  With  it  I  decipher  at  close  range 
such  fmger-work  as  the  cutting  of  intaglios,  the 
brush-marks  on  miniatures,  or  perhaps  the  in- 
tricate fusings  of  metals  in  the  sword-guard  of 
a  Samurai. 

At  the  same  close  range  I  try  to  search  the 
secret  places  of  the  many  minds  and  hearts 
which  in  my  nomadic  life  cross  my  path.  In 
these  magnifyings  and  probings  the  unexpected 
is  ofttimes  revealed  :  tenderness  hiding  behind 
suspected  cruelty;  refinement  under  assumed 
coarseness ;  the  joy  of  giving  forcing  its  way 
through  thick  crusts  of  pretended  avarice. 

The  results  confirm  my  theory,  that  at  the 
bottom  of  every  heart-crucible  choked  with 
life's  cinders  there  can  almost  always  be  found 
a  drop  of  gold. 

F.  H.  S. 

ISO  E.  34th  Street,  New  York. 


SRtB 

URL' 

Ho-  vV^f>>S'0O 


CONTENTS 

WAGK 

A  NIGHT  OUT 3 

AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 34 

A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 56 

THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE      ....  77 

THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI        ...  99 

A  POINT  OF  HONOR 130 

SIMPLE  FOLK 143 

"OLD  SUNSHINE"       ......  167 

A  POT  OF  JAM 193 


jc^        ILLUSTRATIONS  ^ 

HIS  EYES  CAUGHT  THE  OUTLINE  OF  A  GIRL 

Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

HEADS  AND  ARMS  AND  LEGS  MADE  THE  PAS- 
SAGE OF  THE  AISLE  DIFFICULT 8 

RIO  GIUSEPPE 118 


AT  CLOSE  RANGE 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

THOREAU  once  spent  the  whole  livelong 
night  in  the  hush  of  the  wilderness ;  sit- 
ting alone,  listening  to  its  sounds,  —  the  fall  of  a 
nut,  the  hoot  of  a  distant  owl,  the  ceaseless 
song  of  the  frogs. 

This  night  of  mine  was  spent  in  the  open ; 
where  men  came  and  went,  and  where  the  rush 
of  many  feet  and  the  babel  of  countless  voices 
could  be  heard  even  in  its  stillest  watches. 

In  my  wanderings  up  and  down  the  land, 
speaking  first  in  one  city  and  then  in  another, 
often  with  long  distances  between,  I  have  had 
the  good  fortune  to  enjoy  many  such  nights. 
Some  of  them  are  filled  with  the  most  delight- 
ful memories  of  my  life. 

The  following  telegram  was  handed  me  as  I 
left  the  stage  of  the  Opera  House  in  Marshall, 
Mich.,  some  months  ago :  — 

**  Can  you  speak  in  Cleveland  to-morrow 
afternoon  at  2.30  ?  Important.  —  Answer." 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  half-past  ten 
o'clock.     Cleveland  was  two  hundred  miles 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

away,  and  the  Night  Express  to  Toledo  and 
the  East,  due  in  an  hour,  did  not  stop  at  Mar- 
shall. 

I  jumped  into  a  hack,  sprang  out  at  the  hotel 
entrance  and  corralled  the  clerk  as  he  was  leav- 
ing for  the  night.  For  some  minutes  we  pored 
over  a  railway  guide.   This  was  the  result :  — 

Leave  Marshall  at  1.40  A.  M.,  make  a  short 
run  up  the  road  to  Battle  Creek,  stay  there 
until  half-past  three,  then  back  again  through 
Marshall,  without  stopping,  to  Jackson  —  lie 
over  another  hour,  and  so  on  to  Adrian  and  To- 
ledo for  breakfast,  arriving  at  Cleveland  at  11.30 
the  next  morning.  An  all-night  trip,  of  course, 
with  changes  so  frequent  as  to  preclude  the 
possibility  of  sleep,  but  a  perfectly  feasible  one 
if  the  trains  made  reasonable  time  and  connec- 
tions. 

This  despatch  went  over  the  wires  in  reply : — 

"Yes,  weather  permitting." 

To  go  upstairs  and  to  bed  and  to  be  called  in 
two  hours  would  n't  pay  for  the  trouble  of  un- 
dressing ;  better  pick  out  the  warm  side  of  the 
stove,  take  two  chairs  and  a  paper  two  days 
old  and  kill  time  until  one  o'clock.  I  killed  it 
alone,  everybody  having  gone  to  sleep  but 
the  night  porter,  who  was  to  telephone  for  the 
hack  and  assist  with  my  luggage. 

4 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

It  was  a  silent  night, —  one  of  those  white, 
cold,  silent  nights  when  everything  seems 
frozen,  the  people  as  well  as  the  ground ;  no 
wind,  no  sounds  from  barking  dogs  or  tread  of 
hoof  or  rumble  of  wheels.  A  light  snow  was 
falling  —  an  unnoticed  snow,  for  the  porter  and 
I  were  the  only  people  awake  ;  at  eleven  o'clock 
a  few  whirling  flakes  ;  at  twelve  o'clock  an  inch 
deep,  packed  fine  as  salt,  and  as  hard ;  at  one 
o'clock  three  inches  deep,  smooth  as  a  sheet  and 
as  unbroken ;  no  furrow  of  wheels  or  slur  of  foot- 
step. The  people  might  have  been  in  their  graves 
and  the  snow  their  winding-shroud. 

"  Hack  's  ready,  sir."  This  from  the  porter, 
rubbing  his  eyes  and  stumbling  along  with  my 
luggage. 

Into  the  hack  again  —  same  hack ;  it  had  been 
driven  under  the  shed,  making  a  night  of  it,  too 
—  my  trunk  with  a  red  band  outside  with  the 
driver,  my  fur  overcoat  and  grip  inside  with  me. 

There  is  nothing  princely,  now,  about  this 
coat ;  you  would  n't  be  specially  proud  of  it  if 
you  could  see  it  —  just  a  plain  fur  overcoat  — 
an  old  friend  really — and  still  is.  On  cold  nights 
I  put  it  next  to  the  frozen  side  of  the  car  when 
I  am  lying  in  my  berth.  Often  it  covers  my 
bed  when  the  thermometer  has  dropped  to  zero 
and  below,  and  I  am  sleeping  with  my  window 

5 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

up.  It  has  had  experiences,  too,  this  fur  coat ; 
a  boy  went  home  in  it  once  with  a  broken  leg, 
and  his  little  sister  rode  with  her  arm  around 
him,  and  once  —  but  this  is  n't  the  place  to  tell 
about  it. 

From  the  hotel  to  the  station  the  spools  of 
the  hack  paid  out  two  wabbly  parallel  threads, 
stringing  them  around  corners  and  into  narrow 
streets  and  out  again,  so  that  the  team  could 
find  its  way  back,  perhaps. 

Another  porter  now  met  me  —  not  sleepy  this 
time,  but  very  much  awake ;  a  big  fellow 
in  a  jumper,  with  a  number  on  his  cap,  who 
caught  the  red-banded  trunk  by  the  handle  and 
"yanked  "  it  (admirable  word  this !)  on  to  the 
platform,  shouting  out  in  the  same  breath, 
"  Cleveland  via  Battle  Creek  —  no  extras  !  " 

Then  came  the  shriek  of  the  incoming  train 
—  a  local  bound  for  Battle  Creek  and  beyond. 
Two  cars  on  this  train,  a  passenger  and  a 
smoker.  I  lugged  the  fur  overcoat  and  grip  up 
the  snow-clogged  steps  and  entered  the  smoker. 
No  Pullman  on  these  locals,  and,  of  course,  no 
porter,  and  travellers,  therefore,  did  their  own 
lifting  and  lugging. 

The  view  down  the  perspective  of  this  smoker 
was  like  a  view  across  a  battle-field,  the  long 
slanting  lines  of  smoke  telling  of  the  carnage. 

6 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

Bodies  (dead  with  sleep)  were  lying  in  every 
conceivable  position,  with  legs  and  arms  thrust 
up  as  if  the  victims  had  died  in  agony ;  some 
face  down;  others  with  gaping  mouths  and 
heads  hooked  across  the  seats.  These  heads 
and  arms  and  legs  made  the  passage  of  the 
aisle  difficult.  One — a  leg — got  tangled  in  my 
overcoat,  and  the  head  belonging  to  it  said  with 
a  groan :  — 

"Where  in  h —  are  you  goin*  with  that"  — 
But  I  did  not  stop.   I  kept  on  my  way  to  the 
passenger  coach.   It  was  not  my  fault  that  no 
Pullman  with  a  porter  attached  was  run  on  this 
local. 

There  was  no  smoke  in  this  coach.  Neither 
was  there  any  heat.  There  was  nothing  that 
could  cause  it.  Something  had  happened,  per- 
haps to  the  coupling  of  the  steam  hose  so  that 
it  would  n't  couple ;  or  the  bottom  was  out 
of  the  hollow  mockery  called  a  heater ;  or  the 
coal  had  been  held  up.  Whatever  the  cause,  a 
freight  shed  was  a  palm  garden  beside  it.  Nor 
had  it  any  signs  of  a  battle-field.  It  looked  more 
like  a  ward  in  a  hospital  with  most  of  the  beds 
empty.  Only  one  or  two  were  occupied ;  one 
by  a  baby  and  another  by  its  mother  —  the 
woman  on  one  seat,  her  hand  across  the  body 
of  the  child,  and  both  fast  asleep,  one  little  bare 

7 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

foot  peeping  out  from  beneath  the  shawl  that 
covered  the  child,  like  a  pink  flower  a-bloom  in 
a  desert. 

I  can  always  get  along  in  a  cold  car.  It  is  a 
hot  one  that  incites  me  to  murder  the  porter  or 
the  brakeman.  I  took  off  the  coat  I  was  wear- 
ing and  laid  it  flat  on  a  seat.  Then  came  a  layer 
of  myself  with  the  grip  for  a  pillow,  and  then  a 
top  crust  of  my  old  friend.  They  might  have 
knocked  out  the  end  of  the  car  now  and  I 
should  have  been  comfortable.  Not  to  sleep  — 
forty  minutes  would  n't  be  of  the  slightest  ser- 
vice to  a  night  watchman,  let  alone  an  all-night 
traveller  —  but  so  as  to  be  out  of  the  way  of 
porterless  passengers  lugging  grips. 

The  weather  now  took  a  hand  in  the  game. 
The  cold  grew  more  intense,  creeping  stealthily 
along,  blowing  its  frosty  breath  on  the  windows ; 
so  dense  on  some  panes  that  the  lights  of  the 
stations  no  longer  shone  clear,  but  were  blurred, 
like  lamps  in  a  fog.  The  incoming  passengers 
felt  it  and  stamped  their  feet,  shedding  the  snow 
from  their  boots.  Now  and  then  some  traveller, 
colder  than  his  fellow,  stopped  at  the  fraudulent 
heater  to  warm  his  fingers  before  finding  a  seat, 
and,  strange  to  say,  passed  on  satisfied  —  due  to 
his  heated  imagination,  no  doubt. 

The  blanket  of  white  was  now  six  inches 
8 


HEADS  AND  ARMS  AND  LEGS  MADE  THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  AISLE  DIFFICULT. 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

thick,  and  increasing  every  minute.  The  wind 
was  still  asleep. 

"  Guess  we  're  in  for  it,"  said  the  conductor 
to  a  ticket  stuck  in  the  hat  of  a  man  seated  in 
front.  "  I  hear  No.  6  is  stalled  chuck-a-block 
this  side  of  Schoolcraft.  We  '11  make  Battle 
Creek  anyway,  and  as  much  furder  as  we  can 
get,  but  there  ain't  no  tellin'  where  we  '11  bring 
up." 

I  thrust  my  ticket  hand  through  the  crust  of 
my  overcoat  and  the  steel  nippers  perforated  the 
bit  of  cardboard  with  a  click.  I  was  undisturbed. 
Battle  Creek  was  where  I  was  to  get  off ;  what 
became  of  the  train  after  that  was  no  afifair  of 
mine. 

Only  one  thing  worried  me  as  I  lay  curled 
up  like  a  cocoon.  Was  there  a  hotel  at  Battle 
Creek  within  reasonable  distance  (walking,  of 
course  ;  no  hack  would  be  out  a  night  like  this), 
with  a  warm  side  to  its  stove  and  two  more 
chairs  in  which  I  could  pass  the  time  of  my  stay, 
or  would  there  be  only  the  railroad  station  — 
and  if  the  last,  what  sort  of  a  railroad  station  ? 
—  one  of  those  bare,  varnished,  steam-heated 
affairs,  with  a  weighing  machine  in  one  corner 
and  a  slot  machine  in  the  other  ?  or  a  less  mod- 
ern chamber  of  horrors,  with  the  seats  divided 
by  iron  arms  —  instruments  of  torture  for  tired, 

9 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

sleepy  men,  which  must  have  been  devised  in 
the  Middle  Ages  ? 

The  wind  now  awoke  with  a  howl,  kicked  off 
its  counterpane,  and  started  out  on  a  career  of 
its  own.  Ventilators  began  to  rattle ;  incoming 
passengers  entered  with  hands  on  their  hats ; 
outgoing  passengers  had  theirs  whipped  from 
their  heads  before  they  touched  the  platforms 
of  the  stations.  The  conductor  as  he  passed 
shook  his  head  ominously. 

"  Goin'  to  be  a  ring-tailed  roarer,"  he  said  to 
a  man  in  the  aisle  whose  face  was  tied  up  in  a 
shawl  with  the  ends  knotted  on  top  of  his  cap, 
like  a  boy  with  the  toothache.  "  Cold  enough 
to  freeze  the  rivets  in  the  b'iler.  Be  wuss  by 
daylight." 

"Will  we  make  Battle  Creek.?"  I  asked, 
lifting  my  head  from  the  grip. 

"Yes;  be  there  in  two  minutes.  He's 
blowin'  for  her  now." 

Before  the  brakeman  had  tightened  his  clutch 
on  his  brake  I  was  on  my  feet,  had  shifted 
overcoats,  and  v/as  leaning  against  the  fraudu- 
lent heater  ready  to  face  the  storm. 

It  would  have  been  a  far-seeing  eye  that 
could  have  discovered  a  hotel.  All  I  saw  as  I 
dropped  to  the  snow-covered  platform  was  a 
row  of  gas  jets,  a  lone  figure  pushing  a  truck 

10 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

piled  up  with  luggage,  one  arm  across  his  face 
to  shield  it  from  the  cutting  snow,  and  above 
me  the  gray  mass  of  the  station,  its  roof  lost 
in  the  gloom  of  the  wintry  night.  Then  an 
unencumbered  passenger,  more  active  than  I, 
passed  me  up  the  wind-swept  platform,  pushed 
open  a  door,  and  he  and  I  stepped  into  —  What 
did  I  step  into?  Well,  it  would  be  impossible 
for  you  to  imagine,  and  so  I  will  tell  you  in  a 
new  paragraph. 

I  stepped  into  a  little  gem  of  a  station,  look- 
ing like  a  library  without  its  books,  covered  by 
a  low  roof,  pierced  by  quaint  windows  and 
fitted  with  a  big,  deep,  all-embracing  fireplace 
ablaze  with  crackling  logs  resting  on  old-fash- 
ioned iron  dogs,  and  beside  them  on  the  hearth 
a  huge  pile  of  birch  wood.  A  room  once  seen 
never  to  be  forgotten  —  a  cosey  box  of  a  place, 
full  of  curved  alcoves  and  half-round  recesses 
with  still  smaller  windows,  and  a  table  bearing 
a  silver-plated  ice-pitcher  and  two  silver-plated 
goblets,  unchained  (really,  I  am  telling  the 
truth),  and  big  easy  chairs,  five  or  six  of  them, 
some  of  wicker-work  with  cushions,  and  a  straw 
lounge  big  enough  and  long  enough  to  stretch 
out  on  at  full  length.  All  this,  remember,  from 
out  a  night  savage  as  a  pack  of  wolves,  and 
quite  a  thousand  miles  from  home. 
II 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

I  gravitated  instinctively  toward  the  fire, 
threw  my  overcoat  and  grip  on  the  lounge,  and 
looked  about  me.  The  one  passenger  besides 
myself  tarried  long  enough  at  the  ticket  office 
to  speak  to  the  clerk,  and  then  passed  on  through 
the  other  door.  He  lived  here,  perhaps,  or  pre- 
ferred the  hotel  —  wherever  that  was  —  to  the 
comforts  of  the  station. 

The  ticket  clerk  locked  his  office,  looked  over 
to  where  I  stood  with  my  back  to  the  blazing 
fire,  my  eyes  roving  around  the  room,  and  called 
out:  — 

**  I  'm  going  home  now.  Hotel  *s  only  three 
blocks  away." 

"  When  is  the  down  train  due  ?  "   I  asked. 

"Three-thirty." 

"  Will  it  be  on  time  ?  " 

"  Never  stole  it.  Search  me  !  May  be  an  hour 
late ;  may  be  two,"  he  added  with  a  laugh. 

**  I  Ml  stay  here,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Course  —  glad  to  have  you.  You'll  want 
more  wood,  though.  .  .  .  John!"  —  this  to 
the  man  who  had  been  pushing  the  truck  — 
"  bring  in  some  more  wood  ;  man  's  going  to 
stay  here  for  No.  8.  Good-night."  And  he 
shut  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  storm,  his 
coat-sleeve  across  his  face. 

John  appeared  and  dropped  an  armful  of 

12 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

clean  split  silver-backed  birch  logs  in  a  heap  on 
the  hearth,  remarking  as  he  bobbed  his  head 
good-night,  "Guess  you  won't  freeze,"  and 
left  by  the  same  exit  as  the  clerk,  a  breath  of 
the  North  Pole  being  puffed  into  the  cosey  room 
as  he  opened  and  shut  the  door. 

There  are  times  when  to  me  it  is  a  delight  to 
be  left  alone.  I  invariably  experience  it  when  I 
am  sketching.  I  often  have  this  feeling,  too, 
when  my  study  door  is  shut  and  I  am  alone 
with  my  work  and  books.  I  had  it  in  an  in- 
creased degree  this  night,  with  the  snow  drift- 
ing outside,  the  wind  fingering  around  the 
windows  seeking  for  an  entrance,  and  the  whole 
world  sound  asleep  except  myself.  It  seemed 
good  to  be  alone  in  the  white  stillness.  What 
difference  did  the  time  of  night  make,  or  the 
place,  or  the  storm,  or  the  morrow  and  what  it 
might  bring,  so  long  as  I  could  repeat  in  a 
measure  the  comforts  and  privacy  of  my  own 
dear  den  at  home  ? 

I  began  to  put  my  house  in  order.  The  table 
with  the  pitcher  and  goblets  was  drawn  up 
by  the  side  of  the  sofa,  two  easy  chairs  moved 
into  position,  one  for  my  feet  and  one  for  my 
back,  where  the  overhanging  electric  light  would 
fall  conveniently,  and  another  log  thrown  on  the 
fire,  sending  the  crisp  blazing  sparks  upward. 

13 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

My  fur  overcoat  was  next  hung  over  the  chair 
with  the  fur  side  out,  the  grip  opened,  and  the 
several  comforts  one  always  carries  were  fished 
out  and  laid  beside  the  ice-pitcher,  —  my  flask  of 
Private  Stock,  a  collar-box  full  of  cigars,  some 
books,  and  a  bundle  of  proof  with  a  special  de- 
livery stamp  —  proofs  that  should  have  been 
revised  and  mailed  two  days  before.  These  last 
were  placed  within  reach  of  my  hand. 

When  all  was  in  order  for  the  master  of  the 
house  to  take  his  ease,  I  unscrewed  the  top 
of  the  flask,  and  with  the  help  of  the  pitcher 
and  the  goblet  compounded  a  comfort.  Then  I 
lighted  a  cigar  and  began  a  tour  of  the  room. 
The  windows  were  banked  up  with  the  drift ; 
through  the  half-blinded  panes  I  could  see  the 
flickering  gas  jets  and  on  the  snow  below  them 
the  disks  of  white  light.  Beyond  these  stretched 
a  ruling  of  tracks  edged  by  a  bordering  of  empty 
yard-cars,  then  a  waste  of  white  ending  in 
gloom.  The  only  sounds  were  the  creaking  of 
the  depot  signs  swaying  in  the  wind  and  the 
crackle  of  the  logs  on  my  hearth  —  mine  now  in 
the  isolation,  as  was  everything  else  about  me. 
Next  I  looked  between  the  wooden  spindles  of 
the  fenced-in  ticket  office,  and  saw  where  the 
clerk  worked  and  how  he  kept  his  pens  racked 
up  and  the  hook  on  which  he  hung  his  hat  and 

14 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

coat,  and  near  it  the  news-stand  locked  tight, 
only  the  book  posters  showing  over  the  top,  and 
so  on  back  to  my  fire  and  into  my  fur-lined 
throne.  Then,  with  a  sip  of  P.  S.,  I  picked  up 
my  proof  sheets  and  began  to  work. 

Before  I  had  corrected  my  first  galley  my  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  stamping  feet  outside. 
Some  early  train-hand,  perhaps,  or  porter,  or 
some  passenger  who  had  misread  the  schedule  ; 
for  nothing  up  or  down  was  to  pass  the  station 
except,  perhaps,  a  belated  freight.  Then  the 
door  was  burst  open,  and  a  voice  as  crisp  as 
the  gust  of  wind  that  ushered  it  in  called  out :  — 

"  Well,  begorra  !  ye  look  as  snug  as  a  bug  in 
a  rug.   What  d'  ye  think  of  this  for  a  night  ?  " 

He  was  approaching  the  fire  now,  shaking 
the  snow  from  his  uniform  and  beating  his 
hands  together  as  he  walked. 

I  have  a  language  adapted  to  policemen  and 
their  kind,  and  I  invariably  use  it  when  occa- 
sion offers.  Strange  to  say,  my  delight  at  being 
alone  had  now  lost  its  edge. 

"Corker,  isn't  it.?"  I  answered.  "Draw 
up  a  chair  and  make  yourself  comfortable." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do.  By  Jiminy  !  I 
thought  the  ears  of  me  would  freeze  as  1  come 
acrost  the  yard.  What  are  ye  waitin*  for — the 
3.30?" 

15 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

**  I  am.  Here,  take  a  nip  of  this,"  and  I 
handed  him  the  other  goblet  and  pushed  the 
P.  S.  his  way.  Corrupting  the  Force,  I  know, 
but  then  consider  the  temptation,  and  the  fact 
that  I  was  stranded  on  a  lone  isle  of  the  sea,  or 
adrift  on  a  detached  ice  floe  (that 's  a  better 
simile),  and  he  the  only  other  human  being 
within  reach. 

He  raised  the  flask  to  his  eye,  noted  the  flow 
line,  poured  out  three  fingers,  added  one  finger 
of  water,  said  "  How  !  "  and  emptied  the  mix- 
ture into  his  person.  Then  I  handed  him  a 
cigar,  laid  aside  my  proofs,  and  began  to  talk,  1 
not  only  had  a  fire  and  a  pile  of  wood,  with 
something  to  smoke  and  enough  P.  S.  for  two, 
but  I  had  a  friend  to  enjoy  them  with  me. 
Marvellous  place  —  this  Battle  Creek  ! 

"Anything  doing?"  I  asked  after  the  storm 
and  the  night  had  been  discussed  and  my  lighted 
match  had  kindled  his  cigar, 

**  Only  a  couple  o'  drunks  lyin'  outside  a 
j'int,"  he  answered,  stretching  his  full  length 
in  the  chair. 

"  Did  you  run  'em  in  .?  " 

"No,  the  station  was  some  ways,  so  I  tuk 

*em  inside.   I   know  the  feller  that  runs  the 

j'int  an'  the  back  dure  was  open  "  —  and  he 

winked  at  me.   "  They  'd  froze  if  I  'd  left  'em 

i6 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

in  the  drift.  Wan  had  the  ears  of  him  purty 
blue  as  it  wuz." 

"  Anything  else  ?  " 

"Well,  there  was  a  woman  hoUerin'  bloody 
murther  back  o'  the  lumber  yard,  but  I  did  n't 
stop  to  luk  her  up.  They  're  alius  raisin'  a 
muss  up  there  —  it  was  in  thim  tiniments.  Ye 
know  the  place."  (He  evidently  took  me  for 
a  resident  or  a  rounder.)  "  Guess  I' 11  be  jog- 
gin'  'long"  (here  he  rose  to  his  feet),  "my 
beat's  both  sides  of  the  depot  an'  I  daren't 
stop  long.   Good  luck  to  ye." 

"  Will  you  drop  in  again  ?" 

"Yes,  maybe  I  will,"  and  he  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  out,  his  hand  on  his  cap  as 
the  wind  struck  it. 

Half  an  hour  passed. 

Then  the  cough  of  a  distant  locomotive, 
catching  its  breath  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale, 
followed  by  the  rumbling  of  a  heavily  loaded 
train,  growing  louder  as  it  approached,  could 
be  heard  above  the  wail  of  the  storm. 

When  it  arrived  off  my  window  I  rose  from 
my  seat  and  looked  out  through  the  blurred 
glass.  The  breast  of  the  locomotive  was  a 
bank  of  snow,  the  fronts  and  sides  of  the  cars 
were  plastered  with  the  drift.  The  engineer's 
head  hung  out  of  the  cab  window,  his  eye  on  the 

17 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

swinging  signal  lights.  Huddling  close  under 
the  lee  of  the  last  box  car  I  caught  the  outline 
of  a  brakeman,  his  cap  pulled  over  his  ears,  his 
jacket  buttoned  tight.  The  train  passed  with- 
out stopping,  the  cough  of  the  engine  growing 
fainter  and  fainter  as  it  was  lost  in  the  whirl  of 
the  gale.  I  regained  my  seat,  lighted  another 
cigar,  and  picked  up  my  proofs  again. 

Another  half  hour  passed.  The  world  began 
to  awake. 

First  came  the  clerk  with  a  cheery  nod  ;  then 
the  man  who  had  brought  in  the  wood  and  who 
walked  straight  toward  the  pile  to  see  how 
much  of  it  was  left  and  whether  I  needed  any 
more ;  then  the  lone  passenger  who  had  gone 
to  the  hotel  and  who  was  filled  to  the  burst- 
ing point  with  profanity,  and  who  emitted  it 
in  blue  streaks  of  swear  words  because  of  his 
accommodations;  and  last  the  policeman,  beat- 
ing his  chest  like  a  gorilla,  the  snow  flying  in 
every  direction. 

The  circle  widened  and  another  log  was 
thrown  on  the  crackling  fire.  More  easy  chairs 
were  drawn  up,  the  policeman  in  one  and  the 
clerk  in  another.  Then  the  same  old  panto- 
mime took  place  over  the  P.  S.  and  the  goblets, 
and  the  old  collar-box  had  its  lid  lifted  and  did 
its  duty  bravely.  The  lone  passenger,  being 
i8 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

ill-tempered  and  out  of  harmony  with  the  sur- 
roundings, was  not  invited.  (What  a  lot  of 
fun  the  ill-tempered  miss  in  this  world  of  care!) 

Some  talk  of  the  road  now  followed,  whether 
the  Flyer  would  get  through  to  Chicago,  the 
clerk  remarking  that  No.  8  ought  to  arrive  at 
3.30,  as  it  was  a  local  and  only  came  from 
Kalamazoo.  Talk,  too,  of  how  long  I  would 
have  to  wait  at  Jackson,  and  what  accommoda- 
tions the  train  had,  the  clerk  in  an  apologetic 
voice  remarking,  as  he  sipped  his  P.  S.,  that 
it  was  a  "straight  passenger,"  with  nothing 
aboard  that  would  suit  me.  Talk  of  the  town, 
the  policeman  saying  that  the  woman  was 
"  b'ilin'  drunk  "  and  he  had  to  run  both  her  and 
the  old  man  in  before  the  "tiniment  got  quiet," 
the  lone  passenger  interpolating  from  his  seat 
by  the  steam  pipes  that  —  But  it 's  just  as  well 
to  omit  what  the  lone  passenger  said,  or  this 
paper  would  never  see  the  light. 

At  3.30  the  clerk  sprang  from  his  chair.  He 
had,  with  his  quick  ear,  caught  the  long-drawn- 
out  shriek  of  No.  8  above  the  thrash  of  the 
storm. 

Into  my  overcoat  again,  in  a  hurry  this  time 
—  everybody  helping  —  the  fur  one,  of  course, 
the  other  on  my  arm  —  a  handshake  all  around, 
out  again  into  the  whirl,  the  policeman  carrying 

19 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

the  grip ;  up  a  slant  of  snow  on  the  steps  of  the 
cars  —  not  a  traveller's  foot  had  yet  touched  it, 
and  into  an  ordinary  passenger  coach  :  all  in  less 
than  two  minutes  —  less  time,  in  fact,  than  it 
would  take  to  shift  the  scenery  in  a  melodrama, 
and  with  as  startling  results. 

No  sleeping  corpses  here  sprawled  over  seats, 
with  arms  and  legs  thrust  up;  no  mothers 
watched  their  children  ;  no  half-frozen  travellers 
shivered  beside  ice-cold  heaters.  The  car  was 
warm,  the  lights  burned  cheerily,  the  seats  were 
unlocked  and  faced  both  ways. 

Not  many  passengers  either  —  only  six  be- 
sides myself  at  my  end.  Three  of  them  were 
wearing  picture  hats  the  size  of  tea-trays,  short 
skirts,  and  high  shoes  with  red  heels.  The  other 
three  wore  Derbies  and  the  unmistakable  garb 
of  the  average  drummer.  Each  couple  had  a 
double  seat  all  to  themselves,  and  all  six  were 
shouting  with  laughter.  Packed  in  the  other  end 
of  the  car  were  the  usual  collection  of  travellers 
seen  on  an  owl  train. 

I  passed  on  toward  the  middle  of  the  coach, 
turned  a  seat,  and  proceeded  to  camp  for  the 
night.  The  overcoat  did  service  now  as  a  seat 
cushion  and  the  grip  as  a  rest  for  my  elbow. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  the  girls  belonged 
to  a  troupe  on  their  way  to  Detroit ;  that  they 

20 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

had  danced  in  Kalamazoo  but  a  few  hours  be- 
fore, had  supped  with  the  drummers,  and  had 
boarded  the  train  at  2.50.  As  their  conversa- 
tion was  addressed  to  the  circumambient  air, 
"there  was  no  difificulty  in  my  gaining  these  facts. 
If  my  grave  and  reverend  presence  acted  as  a 
damper  on  their  hilarity,  there  was  no  evidence 
of  it  in  their  manner. 

"  Say,  Liz,"  cried  the  girl  in  the  pink  waist, 
"  did  you  catch  on  to  the  "  —  Here  her  head 
was  tucked  under  the  chin  of  the  girl  behind  her. 

**  Oh,  cut  it  out,  Mame !  "  answered  Liz. 
"Now,  George,  you  stop!"  This  with  a 
scream  at  one  of  the  drummers,  whose  head  had 
been  thrust  close  to  Mame'sear  in  an  attempt  to 
listen. 

"Say,  girls,"  broke  in  another  —  they  were 
all  talking  at  once  —  **  why,  them  fellers  in  the 
front  seat  went  on  awful  I  I  seen  Sanders  lookin' 
and"  — 

"Well,  what  if  he  did  look?  That  guy 
ain't"  —  etc.,  etc. 

I  began  to  realize  now  why  the  other  passen- 
gers were  packed  together  in  the  far  end  of  the 
car.   I  broke  camp  and  moved  down  their  way. 

The  train  sped  on.  I  busied  myself  studying 
the  loops  and  curls  of  snow  that  the  eddying 
wind  was  piling  up  in  the  cuts  and  opens,  as 
21 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

they  lay  glistening  under  the  glow  of  the  lights 
streaming  through  the  car  windows ;  noting, 
too,  here  and  there,  a  fence  post  standing  alone 
where  some  curious  wind-fluke  had  scooped 
clear  the  drifts. 

Soon  I  began  to  speculate  on  the  outcome  of 
the  trip.  I  had  at  best  only  three  hours  leeway 
between  11.30  A.  M.,  the  schedule  time  of  arriv- 
ing in  Cleveland,  and  2.30  P.  M.,  the  hour  of 
my  lecture  —  not  much  in  a  storm  like  this, 
with  every  train  delayed  and  the  outlook  worse 
every  hour. 

At  Albion  the  drummers  got  out,  the  girls 
waving  their  hands  at  them  through  the  frosted 
windows.  When  the  jolly  party  of  coryphees 
regained  their  seats,  their  regulation  smiles, 
much  to  my  surprise,  had  faded.  Five  min- 
utes later,  when  I  craned  my  neck  to  look  at 
them,  wondering  why  their  boisterousness  had 
ceased,  the  three  had  wrapped  themselves  up 
in  their  night  cloaks  and  were  fast  asleep.  The 
drummers,  no  doubt,  forgot  them  as  quickly. 

The  conductor  now  came  along  and  shook  a 
sleepy  man  on  the  seat  behind  me  into  con- 
sciousness. He  had  a  small  leather  case  with 
him  and  looked  like  a  doctor  —  was,  probably ; 
picked  up  above  Battle  Creek,  no  doubt,  by  a 
hurry  call.  He  had  been  catching  a  nap  while 
22 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

he  could.  Jackson  was  ten  minutes  away,  so 
the  conductor  told  the  man. 

More  stumbling  down  the  snow-choked  steps 
and  plunging  through  drifts  (it  was  too  early 
yet  for  the  yard  shovellers),  and  I  entered  the 
depot  at  Jackson  —  my  second  stop  on  the  way 
to  Cleveland. 

No  cry  of  delight  escaped  my  lips  as  I  pushed 
open  the  door.  The  Middle  Ages  have  it  all 
their  own  way  at  Jackson,  and  still  do  unless 
the  Battle  Creek  architect  has  since  modernized 
the  building.  Nothing  longer  than  a  poodle  or 
a  six  months'  old  baby  could  stretch  its  length 
on  these  iron-divided  seats.  "Move  on  "  must 
have  been  the  watchword,  for  nobody  sat  — 
not  if  they  could  help  it.  I  tried  it,  spreading 
the  overcoat  between  two  of  them,  but  the  iron 
soon  entered  my  soul,  or  rather  my  hip  joints, 
and  yet  I  am  not  over  large.  No  open  wood 
fire,  of  course,  no  easy  chairs,  no  lounge ; 
somebody  might  pass  a  few  minutes  in  comfort 
if  there  were.  There  was  a  sign,  I  remember, 
nailed  up,  reading  "  No  loiterers  allowed  here," 
an  utterly  useless  affair,  for  nobody  that  I  saw 
loitered.  They  "skedaddled  "  at  once  (that's 
another  expressive  word,  old  as  it  is),  and  they 
failed  to  return  until  the  next  train  came  along. 
Then  they  gathered  for  a  moment  and  again 
23 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

disappeared.  No,  the  station  building  at  Jack- 
son is  not  an  enticing  place  —  not  after  Battid 
Creek. 

And  yet  I  was  not  unhappy.  I  had  only  an 
hour  to  wait — perhaps  two  —  depending  on  the 
way  the  tracks  were  blocked. 

I  unlocked  the  grip.  There  was  nothing  left 
of  the  P.  S.  — the  policeman  had  seen  to  that ; 
and  the  collar-box  was  empty  —  the  clerk  had 
had  a  hand  in  that  —  two,  if  I  remember.  The 
proofs  were  finished  and  ready  to  mail,  and  so 
I  buttoned  up  my  fur  coat  and  went  out  into 
the  night  again  in  search  of  the  post-box, 
tramping  the  platform  where  the  wind  had 
swept  it  clean.  The  crisp  air  and  the  sting  of 
the  snowflakes  felt  good  to  me. 

Soon  my  eye  fell  on  a  lump  tied  up  with  rope 
and  half  buried  in  the  snow.  The  up-train  from 
Detroit  had  thrown  out  a  bundle  of  the  morning 
edition  of  the  Detroit  papers.  I  lugged  it  inside 
the  station,  brushed  off  the  snow,  dragged  it  to 
a  seat  beneath  a  flaring  gas  jet,  cut  the  rope 
with  my  knife,  and  took  out  two  copies  damp 
with  snow.  I  was  in  touch  with  the  world  once 
more,  whatever  happened  !  I  soon  forgot  the 
hardness  of  the  seat  and  only  became  conscious 
that  some  one  had  entered  the  room  when  a 
voice  startled  me  with  :  — 
24 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

"Say,  Boss!" 

I  looked  up  over  my  paper  and  saw  a  boy 
with  his  head  tied  up  in  an  old-fashioned  tippet. 
He  was  blowing  his  breath  on  his  fingers,  his 
cheeks  like  two  red  apples. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

*•  How  many  poipers  did  ye  swipe?" 

"  Oh,  are  you  the  newsboy  ?  Do  these  be- 
long to  you?  " 

"  You  bet!  How  many  ye  got?  " 

"Two." 

"Ten  cents.  Boss.  Thank  ye,"  and  he 
shouldered  the  bundle  and  went  out  into  the 
night,  where  a  wagon  was  standing  to  receive  it. 

"Level-headed  boy,"  1  said  to  myself.  "Be 
a  millionaire  if  he  lives.  No  back  talk,  no 
unnecessary  remarks  regarding  an  inexcusable 
violation  of  the  law — petty  larceny  if  anything. 
Just  a  plain  business  statement,  followed  by  an 
immediate  cash  settlement.  A  most  estimable 
boy." 

A  road  employee  now  came  in,  looked  at  the 
dull-faced  clock  on  the  wall,  went  out  through 
a  door  and  into  a  room  where  a  telegraph 
instrument  was  clicking  away,  returned  with  a 
piece  of  chalk  and  wrote  on  a  blackboard : — 

"No.  31  —  52  minutes  late." 

This  handwriting  on  the  wall  had  a  Belshaz- 

25 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

zar-feast  effect  on  me.  If  I  lost  the  connection 
at  Adrian,  what  would  become  of  the  lecture  in 
Cleveland  ? 

Another  man  now  entered  carrying  a  black 
carpet  bag — a  sleepy  man  with  his  hair  tousled 
and  who  looked  as  if  he  had  gone  to  bed  in  his 
clothes.  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  key, 
went  straight  to  the  slot  machine,  unlocked 
it,  disclosing  a  reduced  stock  of  chewing-gum 
and  chocolate  caramels,  opened  his  carpet  bag 
and  filled  the  machine  to  the  top.  This  sort 
of  a  man  works  at  night,  I  thought,  when  few 
people  are  about.  To  uncover  the  mysteries 
of  a  slot  machine  before  a  gaping  crowd  would 
be  as  foolish  and  unprofitable  as  for  a  con- 
jurer to  show  his  patrons  how  he  performed 
his  tricks. 

I  became  conscious  now,  even  as  I  turned  the 
sheets  of  the  journal,  that  while  my  flask  of 
P.  S.  and  the  contents  of  my  collar-box  were 
admirable  in  their  place,  they  were  not  capable 
of  sustaining  life,  even  had  both  receptacles 
been  full,  which  they  were  not.  There  was 
evidently  nothing  to  eat  in  the  station,  and 
from  what  I  saw  of  the  outside,  no  one  had 
yet  started  a  fire ;  no  one  had  even  struck  a 
light. 

At  this  moment  a  gas  jet  flashed  its  glare 
26 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

through  a  glass  door  to  my  right.  I  had  seen 
this  door,  but  supposed  it  led  to  the  baggage 
room  —  a  fact  that  did  not  concern  me  in  the 
least,  for  I  had  checked  my  red-banded  trunk 
through  to  Cleveland.  I  got  up  and  peered  in. 
A  stout  woman  in  a  hood,  with  a  blanket  shawl 
crossed  over  her  bosom,  its  ends  tied  behind 
her  back,  was  busying  herself  about  a  nickel- 
plated  coffee  urn  decorating  one  end  of  a  long 
counter  before  which  stood  a  row  of  high  stools 

—  the  kind  we  sat  on  in  school.  I  tried  the 
knob  of  the  door  and  walked  in. 

"  Is  this  the  restaurant  ?  " 

"  What  would  ye  take  it  for  —  a  morgue  ?  " 
she  snapped  out. 

**  Can  I  get  a  cup  of  coffee  ?  " 

**  No,  ye  can't,  not  till  six  o'clock.  And  ye 
won't  git  it  then  if  somebody  don't  turn  out 
to  help.  Sittin'  up  all  night  lally-gaggin'  and 
leavin'  a  pile  o'  dirty  dishes  for  me  to  wash  up. 
Look  at  'em  !  " 

"Who's  sitting  up?  "  I  inquired  in  a  mild 
voice. 

"  These  *  ladies '  "  — this  with  infinite  scorn 

—  "that's  doin'  waitin'  for  six  dollars  a  week 
and  what  they  kin  pick  up,  and  it 's  my  opinion 
they  picks  up  more  'n  's  good  for  'em." 

"  And  they  make  you  do  all  the  work  ?  " 
27 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

*'  Well,  ye  'd  think  so  if  ye  stayed  'round 
here." 

"Can  I  help?" 

She  had  been  swabbing  down  the  counter  as 
she  talked,  accentuating  every  sentence  with 
an  extra  twist  of  her  arm,  the  wash-cloth  held 
tight  between  her  fingers.  She  stopped  now 
and  looked  me  squarely  in  the  face. 

** Help!  What  are  you  good  for.?  "  There 
was  a  tone  of  contempt  in  her  voice. 

"  Well,  I  'm  handy  passing  plates  and  cutting 
bread  and  pie.  I  've  nothing  to  do  till  the  train 
comes  along.   Try  me  awhile." 

"You  don't  look  like  no  waiter." 

"  But  I  am.  I  've  been  waiting  on  people  all 
my  life."  I  had  crawled  under  the  counter 
now  and  was  standing  beside  her.  "Where 
will  you  have  this.?  "  and  I  picked  up  from 
a  side  table  a  dish  of  apples  and  oranges  caged 
in  a  wire  screen.  I  knew  I  was  lost  if  I  hesi- 
tated. 

"Lay  'em  here,"  she  answered  without  a 
word  of  protest.  I  was  not  surprised.  The 
big  and  boundless  West  has  no  place  for  men 
ashamed  to  work  with  their  hands.  Only  the 
week  before,  in  Colorado  Springs,  I  had  dined 
at  a  house  where  the  second  son  of  a  noble  lord 
had  delivered  the  family  milk  that  same  morn- 
28 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

ing,  he  being  the  guest  of  honor.   And  then  — 
I  was  hungry. 

The  woman  watched  me  put  the  finishing 
touches  on  the  dish  of  fruit,  and  said  in  an 
altered  tone,  as  if  her  misgivings  had  been  sat- 
isfied :  — 

"  Now,  fill  that  bucket  with  water,  will  ye? 
The  sink 's  behind  ye.  I  '11  start  the  coffee. 
And  here!"  and  she  handed  me  a  key —  "after 
ye  fetch  the  water,  unlock  the  refrigerator  and 
bring  me  that  ham  and  them  baked  beans." 

Before  the  "ladies"  had  arrived  —  half  an 
hour,  in  fact,  before  one  of  them  had  put  in  an 
appearance  —  I  was  seated  at  a  small  table  cov- 
ered with  a  clean  cloth  (I  had  set  the  table), 
with  half  a  ham,  a  whole  loaf  of  bread,  a  pitcher 
of  milk  that  had  been  left  outside  in  the  snow 
and  was  full  of  lovely  ice  crystals,  a  smoking 
cup  of  coffee,  and  a  smoking  pile  of  griddle 
cakes  which  the  woman  had  compounded  from 
the  contents  of  two  paper  packages,  and  which 
she  herself  had  cooked  on  a  gas  griddle  —  and 
very  good  cakes  they  were ;  total  cost,  as  per 
schedule,  fifty  cents. 

Breakfast  over,  I  again  sought  the  seclusion 

of  the  Torture  Chamber.    The  man  with  the 

piece  of  chalk  had  been  kept  busy.   No.  31 

was  now  one  hour  and  forty-two  minutes  late. 

29 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

When  it  finally  reached  Jackson  and  I 
boarded  it  with  my  grip  and  overcoat,  it  looked 
as  if  it  had  run  into  a  glacier  somewhere  up  the 
road  and  had  half  a  snowslide  still  clinging  to 
its  length. 

Day  had  broken  now,  and  what  light  could 
sift  its  way  through  the  falling  flakes  shone 
cold  and  gray  into  the  frost-dimmed  windows 
of  the  car.  I  had  lost  more  than  two  hours  of 
my  leeway  of  three,  and  the  drifts  were  still 
level  with  the  hubs  of  the  driving-wheels. 

We  shunted  and  puffed  and  jerked  along, 
waiting  on  side  tracks  for  freight  trains  hours 
behind  time  and  switching  out  of  the  way  of 
delayed  "Flyers,"  and  finally  reached  Adrian. 
(Does  anybody  know  of  a  Flyer  that  is  on 
time  when  but  a  bare  inch  of  snow  covers  the 
track?) 

Out  of  the  car  again,  still  lugging  my  im- 
pedimenta. 

**  Train  for  Toledo  and  the  East,  did  you 
say.?"  answered  the  ticket  agent.  "Yes,  No. 
32  is  due  in  ten  minutes  —  she  *s  way  behind 
time  and  so  you  've  just  caught  her.  Your 
ticket  is  good,  but  you  can't  carry  no  bag- 
gage." 

The  information  came  as  a  distinct  shock. 
No  baggage  meant  no  proper  habiliments  in 

30 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

which  to  appear  before  my  distinguished  and 
critical  audience  —  the  most  distinguished  and 
critical  which  I  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to 
address  —  a  young  ladies'  school. 

"  Why  no  baggage  ?" 

"  'Cause  there  's  nothing  but  Pullmans,  and 
only  express  freight  carried  —  it 's  a  news  train. 
Ought  to  have  been  here  a  week  ago." 

"  Can  I  give  up  my  check  and  send  my 
trunk  by  express?" 

"  Yes.  That 's  the  agent  over  there  by  the 
radiator." 

One  American  dollar  accomplished  it  —  a 
silver  one  ;  they  don't  use  any  other  kind  of 
money  out  West. 

When  No.  32  hove  in  sight  —  the  Fast  Mail 
is  its  proper  name  —  and  stopped  opposite  the 
small  station  at  Adrian,  a  blessed,  beloved,  be- 
capped,  be-buttoned,and  be-overcoated  Pullman 
porter  —  an  attentive,  considerate,  alert  porter 
—  emerged  from  it,  and  at  a  sign  from  me  picked 
up  my  overcoat  and  grip  —  they  now  weighed  a 
ton  apiece  —  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  con- 
ducted me  into  a  well-swept,  well-ordered  Pull- 
man. 

"Porter,  what's  your  name?"  I  inquired. 
(1  always  ask  a  porter  his  name.) 

"Samuel  Thomas,  sah." 

31 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

"Sam,  is  there  a  berth  left  ?  " 

"Yes,  sah  —  No.  9  lower." 

"Is  it  in  order?  " 

"Yes,  sah  —  made  up  for  a  gem'man  at 
South  Bend,  but  he  did  n't  show  up." 

"Let  me  see  it." 

It  was  exactly  as  he  had  stated ;  even  the 
upper  berth  was  clewed  up. 

"Sam!" 

"  Yes,  sah." 

"  Are  you  married  ?  " 

"Yes,  sah." 

"  Got  any  children  .?  " 

"Yes,  sah  — two." 

"  Think  a  good  deal  of  them  ? " 

"Yes,  sah."  The  darky  was  evidently  at 
sea  now. 

"  Well,  Sam,  I  'm  going  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 
If  anybody  disturbs  me  until  we  get  within 
fifteen  minutes  of  Cleveland,  your  family  will 
never  see  you  alive  again.  Do  you  understand, 
Sam  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sah,  I  understand."  His  face  was  in  a 
broad  grin  now.  "  Thank  ye,  sah.  Here  's  an 
extra  pillow,"  and  he  drew  the  curtains  about 
me. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  past  two,  and  with 
32 


A  NIGHT  OUT 

five  minutes  to  spare,  I  stepped  on  to  the  plat- 
form of   the  Academy  for  Young  Ladies  in 
Cleveland,  properly  clothed  and  in  my  righrt 
mind. 
The  "  weather  had  permitted." 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

STEVE  was  angry. 
You  could  see  that  from  the  way  he  strode 
up  and  down  the  platform  of  the  covered  rail- 
road station,  talking  to  himself  in  staccato  ex- 
plosives, like  an  automobile  getting  under  way. 
Steve  had  lost  his  sample  trunk ;  and  a  drummer 
without  his  trunk  is  as  helpless  as  a  lone  fisher- 
man without  bait. 

Outside,  a  snowstorm  was  working  itself 
up  into  a  blizzard ;  cuts  level  with  the  fences, 
short  curves  choked  with  drifts,  flat  stretches 
bare  of  a  flake.  Inside,  a  panting  locomotive 
crawled  ahead  of  two  Pullmans  and  a  bag- 
gage—  a  Special  from  Detroit  to  Kalamazoo, 
six  hours  late,  loaded  with  comic-opera  peo- 
ple, their  baggage,  properties  —  and  Steve's 
lost  trunk. 

When  the  train  pulled  up  opposite  to  where 
Steve  stood,  the  engine  looked  like  a  snow- 
plough  that  had  burrowed  through  a  drift. 

Steve  moved  down  to  the  step  of  the  first 
Pullman,  his  absorbing  eye  taking  in  the  train, 
the  fragments  of  the  drift,  and  the  noses  of  the 

34 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

chorus  girls  pressed  flat  against  the  frosted 
panes.  The  conductor  was  now  on  the  plat- 
form, crunching  a  tissue  telegram  which  the 
station-master  had  just  handed  him.  He  had 
stopped  for  orders  and  for  a  wider  breathing 
space,  where  he  could  get  out  into  the  open 
and  stretch  his  arms,  and  become  personal  and 
perhaps  profane  without  wounding  the  feelings 
of  his  passengers. 

Steve  stepped  up  beside  him  and  showed  him 
an  open  telegram. 

"Yes,  your  trunk's  aboard  all  right,"  re- 
plied the  conductor,  "but  I  couldn't  fmd  it  in 
a  week.  A  lot  of  scenery  and  ladders  and  truck 
all  piled  in.   I  am  sorry,  but  I  would  n't " — 

"What  you  'wouldn't,'  my  sweet  Aleck, 
don't  interest  me,"  exploded  Steve.  "You  get 
a  couple  of  porters  and  go  through  that  stuff 
and  fmd  my  trunk,  or  I  '11  wire  the  main  office 
that"— 

"  See  here,  young  feller.  Don't  get  gay. 
Hit  that  gourd  of  yours  another  crack  and 
maybe  you  '11  knock  some  sense  into  it.  We  're 
six  hours  late,  ain't  we  ?  We  got  three  hours 
to  make  Kalamazoo  in,  ain't  we  ?  This  show  's 
got  to  get  there  on  time,  or  there  '11  be  H  to 
pay  and  no  pitch  hot.  Now  go  outside  and 
stand  in  a  door  somewheres  and  let  the  wind 

35 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

blow  through  you.  I  '11  wire  you  in  the  morn- 
ing, or  you  can  take  the  5.40  and  pick  your 
trunk  up  at  Kalamazoo.  Let  her  go,  Johnny  "  — 
this  to  the  engine  driver.    "  All  aboard  I  " 

Steve  jerked  a  cigar  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  cut  off  the  end,  and  said,  with  a  bite-in- 
two-tenpenny-nail  expression  about  his  lips :  — 

*'  Steve,  you  're  'it.'  I '11  git  that  trunk  at 
Kalamazoo." 

Then  he  crossed  the  platform,  made  his  way 
to  the  street  entrance,  and  stepped  into  the  om- 
nibus of  the  only  hotel  in  the  town. 

When  the  swinging  sign  of  the  Two-dollar 
House,  blurred  in  the  whirl  of  the  storm,  hove 
in  sight,  Steve's  face  was  still  knotted  in  wrin- 
kles. He  had  a  customer  in  this  town  good  for 
three  hundred  dozen  table  cutlery,  and  but  for 
"this  gang  of  cross-tie  steppers,"  he  said  to 
himself,  he  would  .  .  .  Here  the  hind  heels 
of  the  'bus  hit  the  curb,  cutting  short  Steve's 
anathema. 

The  drummer  picked  up  his  grip  and  made  his 
way  to  the  desk. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Stevey  ?"  asked  Larry, 
the  clerk.    "  You  look  sour." 

"  Sour  ?  I  am  a  green  pickle,  Larry,  that's 
what  I  am  — a  green  pickle.  Been  waiting  five 
hours  for  my  trunk  in  that  oriental  palm  garden 

36 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

of  yours  you  call  a  station.  It  was  aboard  a 
Special  loaded  with  chorus  girls  and  props. 
Conductor  would  n't  dump  it,  and  now  it 's 
gone  on  to  Kalamazoo  and  "  — 

"  Oh,  but  you  Ml  get  it  all  right.  AH  you  've 
got  to  do,  Steve,  is  to  "  — 

"  Get  it !  Yes,  when  the  daisies  are  blooming 
over  us.  I  want  it  now,  Larry.  Whenever  I 
run  up  against  anything  solid  it 's  always  one 
of  these  fly-by-nights.  What  do  you  think  of 
going  upstairs  in  the  dark  and  hauling  out  a 
red  silk  hat  and  a  pair  of  gilt  slippers,  instead 
of  a  sample  card  of  carvers  ?  Well,  that 's  what 
a  guy  did  for  me  last  fall  down  at  Logansport. 
Sent  me  two  burial  caskets  full  of  chorus-girl 
props  instead  of  my  trunk.  Oh,  yes,  I  Ml  get 
it  —  get  it  in  the  neck.  Here,  send  this  grip  to 
my  room." 

The  clerk  pursed  his  lips  and  looked  over  his 
key  rack.  He  knew  that  he  had  no  room  — 
none  that  would  suit  Stephen  Dodd  —  had 
known  it  when  he  saw  him  entering  the  door, 
the  snow  covering  his  hat  and  shoulders,  his 
grip  in  his  hands. 

"  Going  to  stay  all  night  with  us,  Stephen  ?'* 
Larry  asked. 

"  Sure  !  What  do  you  think  I  'm  here  for } 
Blowing  and  snowing  outside  fit  to  beat  the 

37 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

band.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  —  bunk  in 
the  station?" 

"H'm,  h'm,"  muttered  the  clerk,  studying 
the  key  rack  and  name  board  as  if  they  were 
plans  of  an  enemy's  country. 

Steve  looked  up.  When  a  clerk  began  to  say 
"H'm,"  Steve  knew  something  was  wrong. 

"Full?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  full,  Steve,  but  — h'm 
—  we  've  got  the  *  Joe  Gridley  Combination  ' 
with  us  overnight,  and  about  everything  "  — 

"  Go  on  —  go  on  —  what  'd  I  tell  you  ?  Up 
ag'in  these  fly-by-nights  as  usual!"  blurted 
out  Steve. 

The  clerk  raised  his  hand  deprecatingly. 

"Sorry,  old  man.  Put  you  on  the  top  floor 
with  some  of  the  troupe  —  good  rooms,  of 
course,  but  not  what  I  like  to  give  you.  Lead- 
ing lady 's  got  your  room,  and  the  manager 's 
got  the  one  you  sometimes  have  over  the 
extension.  It  'II  only  be  for  to-night.  They  're 
going  away  in  the  morning,  and  I "  — 

"Cut  it  out  —  cut  it  out  —  and  forget  it," 
interrupted  Steve.  "So  am  I  going  away  in 
the  morning.  Got  to  take  the  5.40  and  hunt 
up  that  trunk.  Can't  do  a  thing  without  it. 
Only  waltzed  in  here  to  get  something  to  eat 
and  a  bed.   Be  back  later.   Put  me  anywhere. 

38 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

This  week 's  hoodooed,  and  these  show  guys 
are  doing  it.  You  want  a  guardian,  Stephen  — 
a  gentle,  mild-eyed  little  guardian.  That's 
what  you  want." 

The  clerk  rang  a  gong  that  sounded  like 
a  fire  alarm  and  the  porter  came  in  on  a 
run. 

"  Take  Mr.  Dodd's  grip  and  show  him  up  to 
Number  ii." 

On  the  way  upstairs  Steve's  quick  eye  caught 
the  flare  of  a  play-bill  tacked  to  one  wall. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked  of  the  porter,  point- 
ing to  the  poster  —  "an  'East  Lynne '  or  a 
'Mother's  Curse'?" 

"  No  —  one  o'  them  mix-ups,  I  guess.  Song 
and  dance  stunts.  Number  ii,  did  Larry  say  ? 
There  ye  are  —  key's  in  the  lock."  And  the 
porter  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  room  with 
his  foot,  dropped  Steve's  bag  on  the  pine  table, 
turned  up  the  gas  —  the  twilight  was  coming 
on  —  asked  if  there  was  "anything  more" — • 
found  there  was  n't  —  not  even  a  dime  —  and 
left  Steve  in  possession. 

"  'Bout  as  big  as  a  coffin,  and  as  cold," 
grumbled  Steve,  looking  around  the  room. 
"  No  steam  heat  —  one  pillow  and  "  —  here  he 
punched  the  bed  —  "  one  blanket,  and  thin  at 
that — the  bed  hard  as  a —    Well,  if  this  don't 

39 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

take  the  cake !  If  this  burg  don't  get  a  hotel 
soon  1  '11  cut  it  out  of  my  territory." 

Steve  washed  his  hands ;  wiped  them  on  a 
14  X  20  towel ;  hung  it  flat,  that  it  might  dry 
and  be  useful  in  the  morning ;  gave  his  hair  a 
slick  with  his  comb;  scooped  up  a  dozen  cigars 
from  a  paper  box,  stuffed  them  in  his  outside 
pocket;  relocked  his  grip,  and  retraced  his  steps 
downstairs. 

When  he  reached  the  play-bill  again  he 
stopped  for  particulars.  Condensed  and  pruned 
of  inflammatory  adjectives,  the  gay-colored 
document  conveyed  the  information  that  the 
"Joe  Gridley  Combination  "  would  play  for 
this  one  night,  performance  beginning  at  8  P.  M. 
sharp.  Molly  Martin  and  Jessie  Hannibal  would 
dance,  Jerry  Gobo,  the  clown,  would  dislocate 
the  ribs  of  the  audience  by  his  mirth-provoking 
sallies,  and  Miss  Pearl  Rogers  of  International, 
etc.,  etc.,  would  charm  them  by  her  up-to-date 
delineations  of  genteel  society.  Then  followed 
a  list  of  the  lesser  lights,  including  chorus  girls, 
clog  dancers,  and  acrobats. 

The  porter  was  now  shaking  the  red-hot 
stove  with  a  cast-iron  crank  the  size  and  shape 
of  a  burglar's  jimmy,  the  ashes  falling  on  a 
square  of  zinc  protecting  the  uncarpeted  floor. 
Steve  recognized  the  noise,  and  looking  down 
40 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

over  the  hand  rail  called  out,  pointing  to  the 
poster :  — 

**  How  far  *s  this  shebang  ?  " 

♦"Bout  a  block." 

"That  settles  it,"  said  Steve  to  himself  in 
the  only  contented  tone  of  voice  he  had  used 
since  he  entered  the  hotel.  "  I  Ml  take  this  in." 
And  continuing  on  downstairs,  he  dropped  into 
a  chair,  completing  the  circle  around  the  dis- 
penser of  comfort. 

The  business  of  the  hotel  went  on.  Trains 
arrived  and  were  met  by  the  lumbering  stage, 
the  passengers  landing  in  the  snow  on  the  side- 
walk —  some  for  supper,  one  or  two  for  rooms. 

Supper  was  announced  by  a  tight-laced  blonde 
in  white  muslin,  all  hips  and  shoulders,  throw- 
ing open  the  dining-room  and  mounting  guard 
at  the  entrance,  her  face  illumined  by  that 
knock-a-chip-off-my-shoulder  expression  com- 
mon to  her  class. 

Instantly,  and  with  a  simultaneous  scraping 
of  chair  legs,  the  segments  of  the  circle  around 
the  stove  flung  themselves  into  the  narrow 
passageway. 

Soon  the  racks  were  spotted  with  hats,  their 
owners  being  drawn  up  in  fours  around  the  sev- 
eral tables  —  Steve  one  of  them  —  the  waiter 
ladies  serving  with  a  sweetness  of  smile  and 

41 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

elegance  of  manner  found  nowhere  outside  of 
a  royal  court,  accompanied  by  a  dignity  of  pose 
made  all  the  more  distinguished  by  a  certain 
inward  scoop  of  the  back  and  instantaneous 
outward  bulge  below  the  waist  line  seen  only  in 
wax  figures  flanking  a  cloak  counter. 

Steve  had  a  steak,  liver  and  bacon,  apple  pie, 
a  cup  of  coffee,  and  a  toothpick  —  all  in  ten 
minutes.  Then  he  resumed  his  place  by  the 
stove,  lit  a  cigar,  and  kept  his  eye  on  the  clock. 

Three  hours  later  Steve  was  again  in  his  chair 
by  the  stove.  He  had  been  to  the  show  and  had 
sat  through  two  hours  of  the  performance.  If 
his  expression  had  savored  of  vinegar  over  the 
loss  of  his  sample  trunks,  it  was  now  double- 
proof  vitriol ! 

"Thought  you  was  goin'  to  the  show," 
grunted  the  porter  between  his  jerks  at  the 
handle ;  he  was  again  at  the  stove,  the  ther- 
mometer marking  zero  outside. 

"  Been.  Regular  frost ;  buncoed  out  of  fifty 
cents !  That  show  is  the  limit !  A  couple  of 
skinny-legged  girls  doing  a  clog  stunt ;  a  bag  of 
bones  in  a  low-necked  dress  playing  Mrs.  Lang- 
try  ;  and  a  wall-eyed  clown  that  looked  like  a 
grave-digger.   Rotten  —  worst  I  ever  saw  !  '* 

"Full  house.?" 

42 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

"  Full  of  empties.  'Bout  fifty  people,  I  guess, 
counting  deadheads  —  and  ME." 

Steve  accentuated  this  last  word  as  if  his  fifty 
cents  had  been  the  only  real  income  of  the 
house. 

The  outer  door  now  opened,  letting  in  a  sec- 
tion of  the  north  pole  and  a  cough. 

Steve  twisted  around  in  his  chair  and  recog- 
nized Jerry  Gobo,  the  clown.  His  grease  paint 
was  gone,  but  his  haggard  features  and  the 
graveyard  hack  settled  his  identity. 

Jerry  loosened  the  collar  of  his  frayed,  almost 
threadbare  coat,  approached  the  stove  slowly, 
and  stretching  out  one  blue,  emaciated  hand, 
warmed  it  for  an  instant  at  its  open  door  —  in 
an  apologetic  way  —  as  if  the  warming  of  one 
hand  was  all  that  he  was  entitled  to. 

Steve  absorbed  him  at  a  glance.  He  saw  that 
his  neck  was  thin,  especially  behind  the  ears, 
the  cords  of  the  throat  showing;  his  cheeks 
sunken;  the  sad,  kindly  eyes  peering  out  at 
him  furtively  from  under  bushy  eyebrows, 
bright  and  glassy ;  his  knees,  too,  seemed  un- 
steady. As  he  stood  warming  his  chilled  fin- 
gers, his  hand  and  arm  extended  toward  the 
heat,  his  body  drawn  back,  Steve  got  the  im- 
pression of  a  boy  reaching  out  for  an  apple,  an(J 
ready  to  cut  and  run  at  the  first  alarm. 

43 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

"  Kind  o'  chilly,"  the  clown  ventured,  in  a 
voice  that  came  from  somewhere  below  his 
collar  button. 

"  Yes,"  said  Steve  gruffly.  He  did  n't  intend 
to  start  any  conversation.  He  knew  these  fel- 
lows. One  had  done  him  out  of  eleven  dollars 
in  a  ten-cent  game  up  at  Logansport  the  winter 
before.  That  particular  galoot  did  n't  have  a 
cough,  but  he  would  have  had  if  he  could  have 
doubled  his  winnings  by  it. 

Jerry,  rebuffed  by  Steve's  curt  reply,  brought 
up  the  other  hand,  toasted  it  for  an  instant  at 
the  kindly  blaze,  rubbed  the  two  sets  of  bony 
knuckles  together,  and  remarking  —  this  time  to 
himself  —  that  he  "guessed  he'd  turn  in," 
walked  slowly  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and 
began  ascending  the  long  flight,  his  progress  up 
one  wall  and  half  around  the  next  marked  by 
his  fingers  sliding  along  the  hand  rail.  Steve 
noticed  that  the  bunched  knuckles  stopped  at 
the  first  landing  (it  was  all  that  he  could  see 
from  where  he  sat) ,  and  after  a  spell  of  cough- 
ing slid  slowly  on  around  the  court. 

The  drummer  bit  off  the  end  of  a  fresh  cigar; 
scraped  a  match  on  the  under  side  of  his  chair 
seat;  lit  the  domestic,  and  said  with  his  first 
puff  of  smoke,  his  mind  still  on  the  emaciated 
form  of  the  clown :  — 

44 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

"  Kindlin'  wood  for  a  new  crematory." 

Again  the  outer  door  swung  open. 

This  time  the  Walking  Lady  entered,  accom- 
panied by  the  Business  Agent.  She  wore  a  long 
brown  cloak  that  came  to  her  feet  and  a  stringy 
fur  tippet,  her  head  and  face  covered  by  a  hat 
concealed  in  a  thick  blue  veil.  This  last  she 
unwound  inside  the  hall,  and  seeing  Steve  mo- 
nopolizing the  stove,  began  the  ascent  of  the 
stairs,  one  step  at  a  time,  as  if  she  was  tired 
out. 

Steve  turned  his  face  away.  The  bag  of  bones 
looked  worse  than  ever.  "  'Bout  fifty  in  the 
shade,  I  should  think,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  Ought  to  be  taking  in  washing  and  ironing." 
Meantime  Mathews,  the  Business  Agent,  was 
occupied  with  the  clerk  —  Larry  had  presented 
him  with  a  bill.  The  rates,  the  agent  pleaded, 
were  to  be  a  dollar-sixty.  Larry  insisted  on  two 
dollars.  Steve  pricked  up  his  ears;  this  inter- 
ested him.  If  Larry  wanted  any  backing  as  to 
the  price  he  was  within  call.  This  information 
he  conveyed  to  Larry  by  lifting  his  chin  and 
slowly  closing  his  left  eye. 

The  outer  door  continued  its  vibrations  with 
the  rapidity  of  its  green-baize  namesake  leading 
from  the  dining-room  to  the  kitchen,  ushering 
in  some  member  of  the  troupe  with  every  swing, 

45 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

including  an  elderly  woman  who  had  played 
the  Duchess  in  the  first  act  and  a  fishwife  in 
the  second ;  some  young  men  with  their  hats 
over  their  noses,  and  four  or  five  chorus  girls. 
The  men  looked  around  for  the  index  hand 
showing  the  location  of  the  bar,  and  the  girls, 
after  a  fit  of  giggling,  began  the  ascent  of  the 
stairs  to  their  rooms.  Steve  noticed  that  two  of 
them  continued  on  to  the  third  floor,  where 
Jerry  Gobo,  the  clown,  had  gone,  and  where 
he  himself  was  to  sleep.  One  of  the  girls  looked 
down  at  him  as  she  turned  the  corner  of  the 
stairs  and  nudged  her  companion  —  all  of  which 
was  lost  on  the  drummer.  They  had  probably 
recognized  him  in  the  audience. 

Nothing,  however,  in  their  present  make-up 
could  have  recalled  them  to  Steve's  memory. 
Molly  Martin  had  exchanged  her  green  silk 
tights  and  gauze  wings  for  a  red  flannel  shirt- 
waist, a  black  leather  belt,  blue  skirt,  and  cat- 
skin  jacket.  And  Jessie  Hannibal  had  shed 
her  frou-frou  frills  and  was  buttoned  to  her  red 
ears  in  a  long  gray  ulster  that  reached  down  to 
her  active  little  feet,  now  muffled  in  a  pair  of 
galoshes. 

The  dispute  over  the  bill  at  an  end,  the  Busi- 
ness Agent  fished  up  a  roll  from  one  pocket  and 
a  handful  of  silver  and  copper  coins  from  the 
46 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

other,  counted  out  the  exact  amount,  waited 
until  the  clerk  marked  a  cross  against  his  room 
number,  calling  him  at  seven  o'clock  A.  M., 
tucked  the  receipt  in  his  inside  pocket,  and 
began  the  weary  ascent. 

Steve  shook  himself  free  from  the  chair. 
This  was  about  his  hour.  Rising  to  his  legs, 
he  elongated  one  side  of  his  round  body  with 
his  pudgy  arm,  and  then  the  other,  yawned 
sleepily,  tipped  his  hat  farther  over  his  eye- 
brows, called  to  Larry  to  be  sure  and  put  him 
down  for  the  5.40,  and  mounted  the  stairs  to 
his  room.  If  he  had  had  any  doubts  as  to 
the  fraudulent  character  of  the  whole  "  shooting 
match,"  his  chance  inspection  of  the  caste  had 
removed  them. 

On  entering  his  room  Steve  made  several 
discoveries,  no  one  of  which  relieved  his  gloom 
or  sweetened  the  acidity  of  his  mind. 

First,  that  the  temperature  was  so  far  below 
that  of  a  Pullman  that  the  water-pitcher  was 
skimmed  with  ice  and  the  towel  frozen  as  stiff  as 
a  dried  cod-fish.  Second,  that  Jerry,  the  clown, 
occupied  the  room  to  the  right,  and  the  two 
coryphees  the  room  to  the  left.  Third,  that 
the  partitions  were  thin  as  paper,  or,  as  Steve 
expressed  it,  "thin  enough  to  hear  a  feller 
change  his  mind." 

47 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

With  the  turning-off  of  the  gas  and  the  tuck- 
ing of  Steve's  fat  round  face  and  head  under 
the  single  blanket  and  quilt,  the  sheet  gripped 
about  his  chin,  there  came  a  harsh,  rasping 
cough  from  the  room  on  his  right.  Jerry  had 
opened.  Steve  ducked  his  head  and  covered 
his  ears.  The  clown  would  stop  in  a  minute, 
and  then  Mr.  Dodd  would  drop  off  to  sleep. 

Another  sound  now  struck  his  ear  —  a  wo- 
man's voice  this  time,  with  a  note  of  sympathy 
in  it.   Steve  raised  his  head  and  listened. 

"Say,  Jess,  ain't  that  awful?  I  knew 
Jerry  'd  get  it  on  that  long  jump  we  made.  I 
ain't  heard  him  cough  like  that  since  we  left 
T'ronto." 

"  Oh,  dreadful !  And,  Molly,  he  don't  say 
a  word  'bout  how  sick  he  is.  Billy  had  to  help 
him  off  with  his  —   Oh,  just  hear  Jerry  !  " 

The  talk  ceased  and  Steve  snuggled  his  head 
again.  He  was  n't  interested  in  Jerry,  or  Molly, 
or  Jessie.  What  he  wanted  was  six  hours' 
sleep,  a  call  at  4.45,  and  his  sample  trunk. 

Another  paroxysm  of  coughing  resounded 
through  the  partition,  and  again  Steve  freed 
his  ear. 

"Jerry  ain't  got  but  one  little  girl  left,  and 
she 's  only  five  years  old.  She  's  up  to  the 
Sacred  Heart  in  Montreal.  He  sends  her  money 
48 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

every  week  —  he  told  me  so.  He  showed  me 
her  picture  oncet.  Say !  give  me  some  of  the 
cover ;  it 's  awful  cold,  ain't  it?" 

Steve  heard  a  rustling  and  tumbling  of  the  bed- 
clothes as  the  girls  nestled  the  closer.  Molly's 
voice  now  broke  the  short  silence. 

"  Say,  Jess,  I  'm  dreadful  worried  'bout  Jerry, 
I  bet  he  ain't  got  no  more  cover  'n  we  have. 
He's  right  next  to  us,  and  't ain't  no  warmer 
where  he  is  than  it  is  here.  1  'd  think  he  'd 
tear  himself  all  to  pieces  with  that  cough.  I 
hope  nothin'  '11  happen  to  him.  He  ain't  like 
A^thews.  Nobodyever  heard  a  crossword  out  of 
Jerry,  and  he  'd  cut  his  heart  out  for  ye  and  "  — 

Steve  covered  his  head  again  and  shut  his 
eyes.  Through  the  coarse  cotton  sheet  he 
caught,  as  he  dozed  off  to  sleep  (Jerry's  cough 
had  now  become  a  familiar  sound,  and  therefore 
no  longer  an  incentive  to  insomnia),  additional 
details  of  Jerry's  life,  fortunes  and  misfortunes, 
in  such  broken  sentences  as — 

"She  never  cared  for  him,  so  Billy  told  me. 
She  went  off  with  —  Why,  sure !  did  n't  you 
know  he  got  burnt  out  ?  —  lost  his  trick  ponies 
when  he  was  with  Forepaugh  —  It  '11  be  awful  if 
we  have  to  leave  him  behind,  and  —  I  'm  goin' 
to  see  a  doctor  just  as  soon  as  we  get  to"  — 

Here  Steve  fell  into  oblivion. 

49 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  startled  by  the 
opening  of  his  door.  In  the  dim  glow  of  the 
hall  gas  jet  showing  through  the  crack  and  the 
transom,  his  eyes  caught  the  outline  of  a  girl  in 
her  nightdress,  her  hair  in  two  braids  down  her 
neck.  She  was  stepping  noiselessly  and  ap- 
proaching his  bed.  In  her  hand  she  carried  a 
quilt.  Bending  above  him — Steve  lying  in  the 
shadow  —  she  spread  the  covering  gently  over 
his  body,  tucked  the  end  softly  about  his 
throat,  and  as  gently  tiptoed  out  of  the  room. 
Then  there  came  a  voice  from  the  other  side  of 
the  partition :  — 

"  He  ain't  coughin'  any  more  —  he  *s  asleep. 
I  got  it  over  him.  Now  get  all  your  clo'es, 
Molly,  and  pile  'em  on  top.  We  can  get 
along." 

Steve  lay  still.  His  first  impulse  was  to  cry 
out  that  they  had  made  a  mistake  —  that  Jerry 
was  next  door;  his  next  was  to  slip  into  Jerry's 
room  and  pile  the  quilt  on  him.  Then  he 
checked  himself  —  the  first  would  alarm  and 
mortify  the  girls,  and  the  second  would  be  like 
robbing  them  of  the  credit  of  their  generous 
act.  Jerry  might  wake  and  the  girls  would 
hear,  and  explanations  follow  and  all  the  pleasure 
of  their  sacrifice  be  spoiled.  No,  he  'd  hand  it 
back  to  the  girls,  and  say  he  was  much  obliged 

50 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

but  he  did  n't  need  it.  Again  he  stopped  —  this 
time  with  a  sudden  pull-up.  Going  into  a  chorus 
girl's  room,  under  any  pretence  whatever,  in  a 
hotel  at  night !  No,  sir-ee,  Bob !  Not  for 
Stephen  !  He  had  been  there ;  none  of  that  in 
his! 

All  this  time  the  quilt  was  choking  him — his 
breath  getting  shorter  every  minute,  as  if  he 
was  being  slowly  smothered.  A  peculiar  hot- 
ness  began  to  creep  over  the  skin  of  his  throat 
and  a  small  lump  to  rise  near  his  Adam's  apple, 
followed  by  a  slight  moistening  of  the  eyes  — 
all  new  symptoms  to  Steve,  new  since  his  boy- 
hood. 

Suddenly  there  flashed  into  his  mind  the  pic- 
ture of  a  low-roofed  garret  room,  sheltering  a 
trundle  bed  tucked  away  under  the  slant  of 
the  shingles.  In  the  dim  light  where  he  lay  he 
caught  the  square  of  the  small  window,  the 
gaunt  limbs  of  the  butternut  beyond,  and  could 
hear,  as  he  listened,  the  creak  of  its  branches 
bending  in  the  storm.  All  about  were  old-fash- 
ioned things  —  a  bureau  with  brass  handles; 
a  spinning-wheel ;  ropes  of  onions  ;  a  shelf  of 
apples ;  an  old  saddle ;  and  a  rocking-chair  with 
one  arm  gone  and  the  bottom  half  out.  A  soft 
tread  was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  a  white  figure 
stole  in,  and  a  warm  hand  nestling  close  to  his 

51 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

cheeks  tucked  the  border  of  a  quilt  under  his 
chin.  Then  came  a  voice.  "  I  thought  you 
might  be  cold,  son." 

With  a  bound  Steve  sprang  from  the  bed. 

For  an  instant  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  hard 
mattress,  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  as  if  in  deep 
thought. 

"Those  two  girls  lying  there  freezing,  and 
all  to  get  that  feller  warm !  "  he  muttered. 
"You're  a  dog,  Stephen  Dodd  —  that 's  what 
you  are  —  a  yellow  dog  !  " 

Reaching  out  noiselessly  for  his  shoes  and 
socks,  he  drew  them  toward  him,  slipped  in  his 
feet,  dragged  on  his  trousers  and  shirt,  threw  his 
coat  around  his  shoulders  —  he  was  beginning 
to  shiver  now  —  opened  the  door  of  his  room 
cautiously,  letting  in  more  of  the  glow  of  the 
gas  jet,  and  stole  down  the  corridor  to  the  stair- 
case. Here  he  looked  into  a  black  gulf.  The 
only  lights  were  the  one  by  the  clerk's  desk 
and  the  glow  of  the  stove.  Quickening  his 
steps,  he  descended  the  stairs  to  the  lower  floor. 
The  porter  would  be  up,  he  said  to  himself, 
or  the  night  watchman,  or  perhaps  the  clerk ; 
somebody,  anyway,  would  be  around.  He  looked 
over  the  counter,  expecting  to  find  Larry  in  his 
chair ;  passed  out  to  the  porter's  room  and 
studied  the  trunks  and  boot-stand  ;  peered  be- 

52 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

hind  the  screen,  and  finding  no  one,  made  a 
tour  of  the  floor,  opening  and  shutting  doors. 
No  one  was  awake. 

Then  a  new  thought  struck  him.  This  came 
with  a  thumping  of  one  fist  in  the  palm  of  the 
other  hand,  his  face  breaking  out  into  a  satisfied 
smile  at  his  discovery.  He  remounted  the  stairs 
—  the  first  flight  two  steps  at  a  time,  the  second 
flight  one  step  at  a  time,  the  last  few  levels  on 
his  toes.  If  he  had  intended  to  burglarize  one 
of  the  rooms  he  could  not  have  been  more  care- 
ful about  making  a  noise.  Entering  his  own 
apartment,  he  picked  up  the  quilt  the  girls  had 
spread  over  him,  folded  it  carefully  and  laid  it  on 
the  floor.  Then  he  stripped  off  his  own  blanket 
and  quilt  and  placed  them  beside  it.  These  two 
packages  he  tucked  under  his  arm,  and  with 
the  tread  of  a  cat  crept  down  the  corridor  to  the 
stairway.  Once  there,  he  wheeled  and  with 
both  heels  striking  the  bare  floor  came  tramping 
toward  the  girls'  room. 

Next  came  a  rap  like  a  five-o'clock  call  — 
low,  so  as  not  to  wake  the  more  fortunate  in  the 
adjoining  rooms,  but  sure  and  positive.  Steve 
knew  how  it  sounded. 

"  Who's  there? "  cried  Molly  in  a  voice  that 
showed  that  Steve's  knuckles  had  brought  her  to 
consciousness.    **  'T  ain't  time  to  get  up,  is  it  ?  " 

53 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

•'  No,  I'm  the  night  watchman ;  some  of  the 
folks  is  complaining  of  the  cold  and  saying 
there  warn't  covering  enough,  and  so  I  thought 
you  ladies  might  want  some  more  bedclothes," 
and  Steve  squeezed  the  quilt  in  through  the 
crack  of  the  door. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  began  Molly;  "we  were 
sort  o'  "  — 

"Don't  mention  it,"  answered  Steve,  clos- 
ing the  door  tight  and  shutting  off  any  further 
remark. 

The  heels  were  lifted  now,  and  Steve  crept 
to  Jerry's  door  on  his  toes.  For  an  instant  he 
listened  intently  until  he  caught  the  sound  of 
the  labored  breathing  of  the  sleeping  man, 
opened  the  door  gently,  laid  the  blanket  and 
quilt  he  had  taken  from  his  own  bed  over  Jerry's 
emaciated  shoulders,  and  crept  out  again,  dodg- 
ing into  his  own  room  with  the  same  sort  of 
relief  in  his  heart  that  a  sneak  thief  feels  after 
a  successful  raid.   Here  he  finished  dressing. 

Catching  up  his  grip,  he  moved  back  his 
door,  peered  out  to  be  sure  he  was  not  being 
watched,  and  tiptoed  along  the  corridor  and  so 
on  to  the  floor  below. 

An  hour  later  the  porter,  aroused  by  his 
alarm  clock  to  get  ready  for  the  5.40,  found 

54 


AN  EXTRA  BLANKET 

Steve  by  the  stove.  He  had  dragged  up  another 
chair  and  lay  stretched  out  on  the  two,  his  head 
lost  in  the  upturned  collar  of  his  coat,  his  slouch 
hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  'd  turned  in,"  yawned 
the  porter,  dumping  a  shovelful  of  coal  into  the 
stove. 

"Yes,  I  did,  but  I  couldn't  sleep."  There 
was  a  note  in  Steve's  voice  that  made  the  por- 
ter raise  his  eyes. 

"Ain't  sick,  are  ye?" 

"No  —  kind  o'  nervous  — get  that  way  some- 
times.  Not  in  your  way,  am  I  ?  " 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

HE  was  short  and  thick-set:  round-bod- 
ied—  a  bulbous  round,  like  an  onion  — 
with  alternate  layers  of  waistcoats,  two  gener- 
ally; the  under  one  of  cotton  duck  showing  a 
selvage  of  white,  and  the  outer  one  of  velvet 
or  cloth  showing  a  pattern  of  dots,  stripes,  or 
checks,  depending  on  the  prevailing  style  at 
the  wholesale  clothier's  where  he  traded,  the 
whole  topped  by  a  sprouting  green  necktie. 
Outside  this  waistcoat  dropped  a  heavy  gold 
chain  connecting  with  a  biscuit-shaped  watch, 
the  under  convex  of  its  lid  emblazoned  with  his 
monogram  in  high  relief,  and  the  upper  concave 
decorated  with  a  photograph  of  his  best  girl. 

The  face  of  this  inviting  and  correctly  at- 
tired young  gentleman  was  likewise  round ; 
the  ends  of  the  mouth  curving  upward,  not 
downward  —  upward,  with  a  continuous  smile 
in  each  corner,  even  when  the  mouth  was  shut, 
as  if  the  laugh  inside  of  him  were  still  tickling 
his  funny  bone  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth 
were  recording  the  vibrations.  These  uncon- 
trollable movements  connected  with  other  hila- 

56 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

rious  wriggles  puckering  with  merriment  under 
the  pupils  of  his  two  keen,  searching  eyes, 
bright  as  the  lens  of  a  camera  and  as  sensitive 
and  absorbing. 

Nothing  escaped  these  eyes  —  nothing  that 
was  worth  wasting  a  plate  on.  Men  and  their 
uses,  women  and  their  needs,  fellow  travellers 
with  desirable  information  who  were  cutting 
into  the  bulbous-shaped  man's  territory,  were 
all  focussed  by  these  eyes  and  deluded  by  this 
mouth  into  giving  up  their  best  cash  discounts 
and  any  other  information  needed.  Some  hay- 
seeds might  get  left,  but  not  Sam  Makin. 

"Well,  I  guess  not!  No  flies  on  Samuel! 
Up  and  dressed  every  minute  and  '  next'  every 
time  !  "   Such  was  the  universal  tribute. 

This  knowledge  did  not  end  with  humans. 
Sam  knew  the  best  train  out  and  in,  and  the 
best  seat  in  it ;  the  best  hotel  in  town  and 
the  best  table  in  the  dining-room,  as  well  as  the 
best  dish  on  the  bill  of  fare  —  not  of  one  town, 
but  of  hundreds  all  over  his  territory.  That  is 
what  he  paid  for,  and  that  was  what  he  in- 
tended to  have. 

When  Sam  was  on  the  road,  in  addition  to 
his  grip  —  which  held  a  change  of  waistcoats 
(Sam  did  his  finest  work  with  a  waistcoat), 
some  collars,  and  a  couple  of  shirts,  one  to  wash 

57 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

and  the  other  to  wear,  a  tooth-brush  and  a 
comb — he  held  the  brass  checks  of  four  huge 
trunks  made  of  rawhide  and  strapped  and  cor- 
nered with  iron.  These  went  by  weight  and 
were  paid  for  at  schedule  prices.  When  a  bag- 
gage-master overweighed  these  trunks  an  ounce 
and  charged  accordingly,  there  came  an  uncom- 
fortable moment  and  an  interchange  of  opinions, 
followed  by  an  apology  and  a  deduction,  Sam 
standing  by.  Only  on  occasions  like  these  did 
the  smiles  disappear  from  the  corners  of  Sam's 
mouth. 

Whenever  these  ironclads,  however,  were 
elevated  to  the  upper  floor  of  a  hotel,  and  Sam 
began  to  make  himself  at  home,  the  wriggles 
playing  around  the  corners  of  his  mouth  ex- 
tended quite  up  his  smiling  cheeks  with  the 
movement  of  little  lizards  darting  over  a  warm 
stone. 

And  his  own  welcome  from  everybody  in  the 
house  was  quite  as  cordial  and  hilarious. 

**  Hello,  Sam,  old  man!  Number  31 's  all 
ready — mail's  on  your  bureau."  This  from 
the  clerk. 

*'  Oh  !  is  it  you  ag'in,  Mister  Sam  ?  Oh  — 
go  'long  wid  ye  !  Now  stop  that !  "  This  from 
the  chambermaid. 

**  It 's  good  to  git  a  look  at  ye  !  And  them 

58 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

box-cars  o'  yourn  ain't  no  bird-cages  !  Yes,  sir 
—  thank  ye,  sir."   This  from  the  porter. 

But  it  was  when  the  trunks  were  opened  and 
their  contents  spread  out  on  the  portable  and 
double-upable  pine  tables,  and  Bullock  &  Sons' 
(of  Spring  Falls,  Mass.)  latest  and  best  assort- 
ment of  domestic  cutlery  was  exposed  to  view, 
and  the  room  became  crowded  with  Sam's  cus- 
tomers, that  the  smile  on  his  face  became  a 
veritable  coruscation  of  wriggles  and  darts; 
scurrying  around  his  lips,  racing  in  circles  from 
his  nose  to  his  ears,  tumbling  over  each  other 
around  the  corners  of  his  pupils  and  beneath  the 
lids ;  Sam  talking  all  the  time,  the  keen  eyes 
boring,  or  taking  impressions,  the  sales  increas- 
ing every  moment. 

When  the  last  man  was  bowed  out  and  the 
hatches  of  the  ironclads  were  again  shut,  any 
one  could  see  that  Sam  had  skimmed  the  cream 
of  the  town.  The  hayseeds  might  have  what 
was  left.  Then  he  would  go  downstairs,  square 
himself  before  a  long,  sloping  desk,  open  a  non- 
stealable  inkstand,  turn  on  an  electric  light,  sift 
out  half  a  dozen  sheets  of  hotel  paper,  and  tell 
Bullock  &  Sons  all  about  it. 

On  this  trip  Sam's  ironclads  were  not  wide 
open  on  a  hotel  table,  but  tight-locked  aboard 

59 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

a  Fall  River  steamer.  Sam  had  a  customer  in 
Fall  River,  good  for  fifty  dozen  of  B.  &  S.'s 
No.  i8  scissors,  $g  —  lo  per  cent,  off  and  5  more 
for  cash.  The  ironclads  had  been  delivered  on 
the  boat  by  the  transfer  company.  Sam  had 
taken  a  street-car.  There  was  a  block,  half  an 
hour's  delay,  and  Sam  arrived  on  the  string- 
piece  as  the  gang-plank  was  being  hauled  aboard. 

**  Look  out,  young  feller  !  "  said  the  wharf- 
man;  "you're  left." 

"Look  again,  you  Su-markee!"  (nobody 
knows  what  Sam  means  by  this  epithet),  and 
the  drummer  threw  his  leg  over  the  rail  of  the 
slowly  moving  steamer  and  dropped  on  her  deck 
as  noiselessly  as  a  cat.  This  done,  he  lifted  a 
cigar  from  a  bunch  stuffed  in  the  outside  pocket 
of  the  prevailing  waistcoat,  bit  off  the  end, 
swept  a  match  along  the  seam  of  his  "pants  " 
(Sam's  own),  lit  the  end  of  the  domestic,  blew 
a  ring  toward  the  fast  disappearing  wharfman, 
and  turned  to  get  his  ticket  and  stateroom, 
neither  of  which  had  he  secured. 

Just  here  Mr.  Samuel  Makin,  of  Bullock  & 
Sons,  manufacturers,  etc.,  etc.,  received  a  slight 
shock. 

There  was  a  ticket  office  and  a  clerk,  and  a 
rack  of  stateroom  keys,  just  as  Sam  had  ex- 
pected, but  there  was  also  a  cue  of  passengers 
60 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

—  a  long,  winding  snake  of  a  cue  beginning  at 
the  window  framing  the  clerk's  face  and  ending 
on  the  upper  deck.  This  crawling  line  of  expect- 
ants was  of  an  almost  uniform  color,  so  far  as 
hats  were  concerned  —  most  of  them  dark  blue, 
and  all  of  them  banded  about  with  a  gold  cord 
and  acorns.  The  shoulders  varied  a  little,  show- 
ing a  shoulder-strap  here  and  there,  and  once 
in  a  while  the  top  of  a  medal  pinned  to  a  breast 
pressed  tight  against  some  comrade's  back. 
Lower  down,  whenever  the  snake  parted  for  an 
instant,  could  be  seen  an  armless  sleeve  and  a 
pair  of  crutches.  As  the  head  of  this  cue  reached 
the  window  a  key  was  passed  out  and  the  for- 
tunate owner  broke  away,  the  coveted  prize  in 
his  hand,  and  another  expectant  took  his  place. 

Sam  watched  the  line  for  a  moment  and  then 
turned  to  a  bystander :  — 

"What's  going  on  here.? — a  camp-meet- 
ing?" 

"  No.  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  —  going 
to  Boston  for  two  days.  Ain't  been  a  berth 
aboard  here  for  a  week.  Sofas  are  going  at  two 
dollars,  and  pillows  at  seventy-five  cents." 

Sam's  mind  reverted  for  a  moment  to  the  look 
on  the  wharf  man's  face,  and  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  began  to  play.   He  edged  nearer  to  the 
window  and  caught  the  clerk's  eye. 
6i 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

"No  hurry,  Billy,"  and  Sam  winked,  and  all 
the  lizards  darted  out  and  began  racing  around 
the  corners  of  his  mouth.  "'Tend  to  these 
gents  first  —  I'll  call  later.  Number  15,  ain't 
it?" 

The  clerk  moved  the  upper  lid  of  his  left  eye 
a  hair's  breadth,  took  a  key  from  the  rack  and 
slipped  it  under  a  pile  of  papers  on  his  desk. 

Sam  caught  the  vibration  of  the  lid,  tilted  his 
domestic  at  a  higher  angle,  and  went  out  to 
view  the  harbor  and  the  Statue  of  Liberty  and 
the  bridge  —  any  old  thing  that  pleased  him. 
Then  this  expression  slipped  from  between  his 
lips :  — 

"That  was  one  on  the  hayseeds  !  Cold  day 
when  you  're  left,  Samuel !  " 

When  supper  time  arrived  the  crowd  was  so 
great  that  checks  were  issued  for  two  tables,  an 
hour  apart.  When  the  captain  of  the  boat  and 
the  ranking  officer  of  the  G.  A.  R.  filed  in,  fol- 
lowed by  a  hungry  mob,  a  lone  man  was  discov- 
ered seated  at  a  table  nearest  the  galley  where 
the  dishes  were  hottest  and  best  served.  It  was 
Sam.  He  had  come  in  through  the  pantry,  and 
the  head  steward  —  Sam  had  known  him  for 
years,  nearly  as  long  as  he  had  known  the 
clerk  —  had  attended  to  the  other  details,  one 
of  which  was  a  dish  of  soft-shell  crabs,  only 
62 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

enough  for  half  a  dozen  passengers,  and  which 
toothsome  viands  the  head  steward  scratched 
off  the  bill  of  fare  the  moment  they  had  been 
swallowed. 

That  night  Sam  sat  up  on  deck  until  the 
moon  rose  over  Middle  Ground  Light,  talking 
shop  to  another  drummer,  and  then  he  started 
for  stateroom  Number  15,  with  an  upper  and 
lower  berth  (both  Sam's),  including  a  set  of 
curtains  for  each  berth  —  a  chair,  a  washbowl, 
life  preserver,  and  swinging  light.  On  his  way 
to  this  Oriental  boudoir  he  passed  through  the 
saloon.  It  was  occupied  by  a  miscellaneous  as- 
sortment of  human  beings — men,  women,  and 
children  in  all  positions  of  discomfort  —  some 
sprawled  out  on  the  stationary  sofas,  some  flat 
on  the  carpet,  their  backs  to  the  panelling ; 
others  nodding  on  the  staircase,  determined  to 
sit  it  out  until  daylight.  On  the  deck  below, 
close  against  the  woodwork,  rolled  up  in  their 
coats,  was  here  and  there  a  veteran.  They  had 
slept  that  way  many  a  time  in  the  old  days, 
with  the  dull  sound  of  a  distant  battery  lulling 
them  to  sleep  —  they  rather  liked  it. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  crowd  swarmed 
out  to  board  the  train  at  Fall  River,  Sam  tarried  a 
moment  at  the  now  deserted  ticket  office,  smiled 
blandly  at  Billy,  and  laid  a  greenback  on  the  sill. 

63 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man,  with  my 
holding  on  to  Number  15  till  I  come  back?  This 
boat  goes  back  to  New  York  day  after  to-mor- 
row, does  n't  she  ?  " 

Billy  nodded,  picked  up  a  lead-pencil  and  put 
a  cross  against  Number  15  ;  then  he  handed 
Sam  back  his  change  and  the  key. 

All  that  day  in  Fall  River  Sam  sold  cutlery, 
the  ironclads  doing  service.  The  next  day  he 
went  to  Boston  on  a  later  train  than  the  crowd, 
and  had  almost  a  whole  car  to  himself.  The 
third  day  he  returned  to  Fall  River  an  hour 
ahead  of  the  special  train  carrying  the  Grand 
Army,  and  again  with  half  the  car  to  himself. 
When  the  special  rolled  into  the  depot  and  was 
shunted  on  to  the  steamboat  dock,  it  looked,  in 
perspective  from  where  Sam  stood,  like  a  tene- 
ment house  on  a  hot  Sunday  —  every  window 
and  door  stuffed  with  heads,  arms,  and  legs. 

Sam  studied  the  mob  for  a  few  minutes,  felt 
in  his  "pants"  pocket  for  his  key,  gave  it  one 
or  two  loving  pats  with  his  fingers,  and  took  a 
turn  up  the  dock  where  it  was  cooler  and  where 
the  human  avalanche  would  n't  run  over  him. 

When  the  tenement  house  was  at  last  un- 
loaded, it  was  discovered  that  it  had  contained 
twice  as  many  people  as  had  filled  it  two  days 
before.   They  had  gone  to  Boston  by  different 
64 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

lines,  and  being  now  tired  out  and  penniless 
were  returning  home  by  the  cheapest  and  most 
comfortable  route.  They  wanted  the  salt 
zephyrs  of  the  sea  to  fan  them  to  sleep,  and  the 
fish  and  clams  and  other  marine  delicacies  so 
lavishly  served  on  the  Fall  River  Line  as  a  tonic 
for  their  depleted  systems. 

Not  the  eager,  expectant  crowd  that  with 
band  playing  and  flags  flying  had  swept  out  of 
the  depot  the  day  of  the  advance  on  Boston ! 
Not  that  kind  of  a  crowd  at  all,  but  a  bedrag- 
gled, forlorn,  utterly  exhausted  and  worn-out 
crowd ;  children  crying,  and  pulled  along  by  one 
arm  or  hugged  to  perspiring  breasts  ;  uniforms, 
yellow  with  dust ;  men  struggling  to  keep  the 
surging  mass  from  wives  who  had  hardly 
strength  left  for  another  step ;  flags  furled ; 
bass  drum  with  a  hole  in  it ;  band  silent. 

Sam  looked  on  and  again  patted  his  key.  The 
hayseeds  had  aired  their  collars  and  had  "  got 
it  in  the  neck."  No  G.  A.  R.  for  Samuel;  no 
excursions,  no  celebrations,  no  picnics  for  him. 
He  had  all  his  teeth,  and  an  extra  wisdom  molar 
for  Sundays. 

The  contents  of  the  tenement  now  began  to 
press  through  the  closed  shed  on  their  way  to 
the  gang-plank,  and  Sam,  realizing  the  size  of 
the  mob,  and  fearing  that  half  of  them,  includ- 
es 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

ing  himself,  would  be  left  on  the  dock,  slipped 
into  the  current  and  was  swept  over  the  tem- 
porary bridge,  across  the  deck  and  up  the  main 
staircase  leading  to  the  saloon  —  up  to  the  top 
step. 

Here  the  current  stopped. 

Ahead  of  him  was  a  solid  mass,  and  behind 
him  a  pressure  that  increased  every  moment  and 
that  threatened  to  push  him  off  his  feet.  He 
could  get  neither  forward  nor  back. 

A  number  of  other  people  were  in  the  same 
predicament.  One  was  a  young  woman  who,  in 
sheer  exhaustion,  had  seated  herself  upon  the 
top  step  level  with  the  floor  of  the  saloon.  Her 
hair  was  dishevelled,  her  bonnet  awry,  her 
pretty  silk  cape  covered  with  dust.  On  her  lap 
lay  a  boy  of  five  years  of  age.  Close  to  her  — 
so  close  that  Sam's  shoulder  pressed  against  his 
—  stood  a  man  in  an  army  hat  with  the  cord 
and  acorn  encircling  the  crown.  On  his  breast 
was  pinned  a  medal.  Sam  was  so  close  he  could 
read  the  inscription  :  "  Fair  Oaks,"  it  said,  and 
then  followed  the  date  and  the  name  and  num- 
ber of  the  regiment.  Sam  knew  what  it  meant : 
he  had  had  an  uncle  who  went  to  the  war,  and 
who  wore  a  medal.  His  sword  hung  over  the 
mantel  in  his  mother's  sitting-room  at  home. 
The  man  before  him  had,  no  doubt,  been 
66 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

equally  brave  :  he  had  saved  the  colors  the  day 
of  the  fight,  perhaps,  or  had  carried  a  wounded 
comrade  out  of  range  of  a  rifle  pit,  or  had  thrown 
an  unexploded  shell  clear  of  a  tent  —  some  little 
thing  like  that. 

Sam  had  never  seen  a  medal  that  close  be- 
fore, and  his  keen  lens  absorbed  every  detail  — 
the  ribbon,  the  way  it  was  fastened  to  the 
cloth,  the  broad,  strong  chest  behind  it.  Then 
he  looked  into  the  man's  firm,  determined, 
kindly  face,  with  its  piercing  black  eyes  and 
closely  trimmed  mustache,  and  then  over  his 
back  and  legs.  He  was  wondering  now  where  the 
ball  had  struck  him,  and  what  particular  part  of 
his  person  had  been  sacrificed  in  earning  so  dis- 
tinguishing a  mark  of  his  country's  gratitude. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  woman,  and  a  slight 
frown  gathered  on  his  face  when  he  realized 
that  she  alone  had  blocked  his  way  to  the  open 
air  and  the  deck  beyond.  He  could  step  over 
any  number  of  men  whenever  the  mass  of 
human  beings  crushing  his  ribs  and  shoulder- 
blades  began  once  more  to  move,  but  a  woman 
—  a  tired  woman  —  with  a  boy  —  out  on  a 
jamboree  like  this,  with  — 

Here  Sam  stopped,  and  instinctively  felt 
around  among  his  loose  change  for  his  key. 
Number  15  was  all  right,  anyway. 

67 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

At  the  touch  of  the  key  Sam's  face  once 
more  resumed  its  contented  look,  the  lizards 
darting  out  to  play,  as  usual. 

The  boy  gave  a  sharp  cry. 

The  woman  put  her  hand  on  the  child's 
head,  smoothed  it  softly,  and  looked  up  in  the 
face  of  the  man  with  the  medal. 

"  And  you  can  get  no  stateroom,  George  ?  " 
she  asked  in  a  plaintive  tone. 

"Stateroom,  Kitty!  Why,  we  couldn't  get 
a  pillow.  I  tried  to  get  a  shake-down  some'ers, 
but  half  these  people  won't  get  six  feet  of  space 
to  lie  down  in,  let  alone  a  bed." 

"  Well,  1  don't  know  what  we  're  going  to 
do.  Freddie  's  got  a  raging  fever;  I  can't  hold 
him  here  in  my  arms  all  night." 

Sam  shifted  his  weight  to  the  other  foot  and 
concentrated  his  camera.  The  man  with  the 
medal  and  the  woman  with  the  boy  were 
evidently  man  and  wife.  Sam  had  no  little 
Freddie  of  his  own — no  Kitty,  in  fact — not  yet 
—  no  home  really  that  he  could  call  his  own  — 
never  more  than  a  month  at  a  time.  A  Pullman 
lower  or  a  third  story  front  in  a  three-dollar-a- 
day  hotel  was  often  his  bed,  and  a  marble-top 
table  with  iron  legs  screwed  to  the  floor  of  a 
railroad  restaurant  and  within  sound  of  a  big- 
voiced  gateman  bawling  out  the  trains,  gen- 
68 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

erally  his  board.  Freddie  looked  like  a  nice 
boy,  and  she  looked  like  a  nice  woman.  Man 
was  O.  K.,  anyhow  —  didn't  give  medals  of 
honor  to  any  other --kind.  Both  of  them  fools, 
though,  or  they  would  n't  have  brought  that  kid 
out  — 

Again  the  child  turned  its  head  and  uttered  a 
faint  cry,  this  time  as  if  in  pain. 

Sam  freed  his  arm  from  the  hip  bone  of  the 
passenger  on  his  left,  and  said  in  a  sympathetic 
voice  —  unusual  for  Sam  :  — 

**Is  this  your  boy  ?  "  The  drummer  was  not 
a  born  conversationalist  outside  of  trade  mat- 
ters, but  he  had  to  begin  somewhere. 

"Yes,  sir."  The  woman  looked  up  and  a 
flickering  smile  broke  over  her  lips.  "  Our  only 
one,  sir." 

"  Sick,  ain't  he  .?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  got  a  high  fever." 

The  man  with  the  medal  now  wrenched  his 
shoulder  loose  and  turned  half  round  toward 
Sam.  Sam  never  looked  so  jolly  nor  so  trust- 
worthy :  the  lizards  were  in  full  play  all  over 
his  cheeks. 

"  Freddie  's  all  tired  out,  comrade.  I  did  n't 
want  to  bring  him,  but  Kitty  begged  so.  It  was 
crossing  the  Common,  in  that  heat  —  your 
company   must  have  felt  it  when  you  come 

69 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

along.   The  sun  beat  down  terrible  on  Freddie 
—  that 's  what  used  him  up." 

Sam  felt  a  glow  start  somewhere  near  his 
heels,  struggle  up  through  his  spinal  column,  and 
end  in  his  fingers.  Being  called  *  *  comrade  "  by  a 
man  with  a  medal  on  his  chest  was,  somehow, 
better  than  being  mistaken  for  a  millionaire. 

"  Can't  you  get  a  stateroom  ?  "  Sam  asked. 
Of  course  the  man  couldn't  —  he  had  heard 
him  say  so.  The  drummer  was  merely  sparring 
for  time  —  trying  to  adjust  himself  to  a  new 
situation  —  one  rare  with  him.  Meanwhile  the 
key  of  Number  15  was  turning  in  his  pocket  as 
uneasily  as  a  grain  of  corn  on  a  hot  shovel. 

The  man  shook  his  head  in  a  hopeless  way. 
The  woman  replied  in  his  stead  —  she,  too,  had 
fallen  a  victim  to  Sam's  smile. 

"  No,  sir,  that 's  the  worst  of  it,"  she  said  in 
a  choking  voice.  "  If  we  only  had  a  pillow  we 
could  put  Freddie's  head  on  it  and  I  could  find 
some  place  where  he  might  be  comfortable.  I 
don't  much  mind  for  myself,  but  it 's  dreadful 
about  Freddie  "  —  and  she  bent  her  head  over 
the  child. 

Sam  thought  of  the  upper  berth  in  Number  15 
with  two  pillows  and  the  lower  berth  with  two 
more.  By  this  time  the  key  of  Number  15  had 
reached  a  white  heat. 

70 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

"Well,  I  guess  I  can  help  out,"  Sam  blurted. 
**  1  've  got  a  stateroom  —  got  two  berths  in  it. 
Just  suit  you,  come  to  think  of  it.  Here"  — 
and  he  dragged  out  the  key  —  "  Number  15  — 
main  deck  —  you  can't  miss  it.  Put  the  kid  there 
and  bunk  in  yourselves  " —  and  he  dropped  the 
key  in  the  woman's  lap,  his  voice  quivering,  a 
lump  in  his  throat  the  size  of  a  hen's  egg. 

"  Oh,  sir,  we  could  n't !  "  cried  the  woman. 

"No,  comrade,"  interrupted  the  man,  "we 
can't  do  that ;  we  "  — 

Sam  heard,  but  he  did  not  tarry.  With  one 
of  his  nimble  springs  he  lunged  through  the 
crowd,  his  big  fat  shoulders  breasting  the  mob, 
wormed  himself  out  into  the  air ;  slipped  down 
a  ladder  to  the  deck  below,  interviewed  the 
steward,  borrowed  a  blanket  and  a  pillow,  and 
proceeded  to  hunt  up  the  ironclads.  If  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  he  would  string  them  in  a 
row,  spread  his  blanket  on  top,  and  roll  up  for 
the  night.  Their  height  would  keep  him  off  the 
deck,  and  the  roof  above  them  would  protect 
him  from  the  weather  should  a  squall  come  up. 

This  done,  he  drew  out  a  domestic  from  the 
upper  pocket,  bit  off  the  end,  slid  a  match 
along  the  well-worn  seam,  and  blew  a  ring  out 
to  sea. 

"  Could  n't  let  that  kid  sit  up  all  night,  you 

71 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

know,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "Not  your 
Uncle  Joseph:  no  sir-ee  " — and  he  wedged 
his  way  back  to  the  deck  again. 

An  hour  later,  with  his  blanket  over  his 
shoulder  and  his  pillow  under  his  arm,  Sam 
again  sought  his  ironclads.  Steward,  chief 
cook,  clerk  —  everything  had  failed.  The 
trunks  with  the  pillow  and  blanket  were  all 
that  was  left. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  now,  and  the  sum- 
mer twilight  had  faded  and  only  the  steamer's 
lanterns  shone  on  the  heads  of  the  people.  As 
he  passed  the  companion-way  he  ran  into  a  man 
in  an  army  hat.  Backing  away  in  apology  he 
caught  the  glint  of  a  medal.  Then  came  a  fa- 
miliar voice :  — 

"Comrade,  where  you  been  keeping  your- 
self ?  I  've  been  hunting  you  all  over  the  boat. 
You  're  the  man  gave  me  the  key,  ain't  you  }  " 

"Sure!  How's  the  kid  ?  Is  he  all  right? 
Did  n't  I  tell  you  you  'd  find  that  up-to-date  ? 
It 's  a  cracker-jack,  that  room  is ;  I  've  had  it 
before.  Tell  me,  how 's  the  kid  and  the  wife  — 
kind  o' comfy,  ain't  they  ?  " 

"  Both  are  all  right.;  Freddie  's  in  the  lower 
berth  and  Kitty  sitting  by  him.  He  's  asleep, 
and  the  fever  's  going  down  ;  ain't  near  so  hot 
72 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

as  he  was.  You  're  white,  comrade,  all  the 
way  through."  The  man's  big  hand  closed 
over  Sam's  in  a  warm  embrace.  "  I  thank  you 
for  it.  You  did  us  a  good  turn  and  we  ain't 
going  to  forget  you." 

Sam  kept  edging  away ;  what  hurt  him  most 
was  being  thanked. 

"  But  that  ain't  what  I  've  been  hunting  you 
for,  comrade,"  the  man  continued.  "  You  did  n't 
get  a  stateroom,  did  you  .?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sam,  shaking  his  head  and  still 
backing  away.  "But  I'm  all  right  —  got  a 
pillow  and  a  blanket  —  see  !  "  and  he  held  them 
up.  "  You  need  n't  worry,  old  man.  This  ain't 
nothing  to  the  way  I  sleep  sometimes.  I  'm 
one  of  those  fellows  can  bunk  in  anywhere." 
Sam  was  now  in  sight  of  his  trunks. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  man,  still  keeping  close 
to  Sam,  "that's  just  what  we  thought  would 
happen  ;  that 's  what  does  worry  us,  and  worry 
us  bad.  You  ain't  going  to  bunk  in  anywhere 
—  not  by  a  blamed  sight !  Kitty  and  I  have 
been  talking  it  over,  and  what  Kitty  says 
goes  1  There  's  two  bunks  in  that  stateroom ; 
Kitty's  in  one  'longside  of  the  boy,  and  you 
got  to  sleep  in  the  other." 

"Me!  —  well  —  but  —  why,  man!"  Sam's 
astonishment  took  his  breath  away. 

73 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

!    *'  You  got  to !  "  The  man  meant  it. 

"But  I  won't!  "  said  Sam  in  a  determined 
voice. 

"Well,  then,  out  goes  Kitty  and  the  boy! 
You  think  I  'm  going  to  sleep  in  your  bunk, 
and  have  you  stretched  out  here  on  a  plank 
some'ers  !   No,  sir  !   You  got  to,  I  tell  you  !  " 

"  Why,  see  here ! "  Sam  was  floundering 
about  now  as  helplessly  as  if  he  had  been 
thrown  overboard  with  his  hands  tied. 

"There  ain't  no  seeing  about  it,  comrade." 
The  man  was  close  to  him  now,  his  eyes  boring 
into  Sam's  with  a  look  in  them  as  if  he  was 
taking  aim. 

"You  say  I've  got  to  get  into  the  upper 
berth  }  "  asked  Sam  in  a  baffled  tone. 

"Yes." 

Sam  ruminated  :    "  When  ?  " 

"  When  Kitty  gets  to  bed." 

"  How  '11  I  know  ?  " 

"I  '11  come  for  you." 

"  All  right  —  you  '11  find  me  here." 

Then  Sam  turned  up  the  deck  muttering  to 
himself:  "That's  one  on  you,  Sam-u-e-1  — 
one  under  the  chin  whisker.  Got  to  —  eh? 
Well,  for  the  love  of  Mike  !  " 

In  ten  minutes  Sam  heard  a  whistle,  and 
raised  his  head.     The  man  with   the   medal 

74 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

was  leaning  over  the  rail  looking  down  at 
him. 

Sam  mounted  the  steps  and  picked  his  way 
among  the  passengers  sprawled  over  the  floor 
and  deck.  The  man  advanced  to  meet  him, 
smiled  contentedly,  walked  along  the  corridor, 
put  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door  of  Num- 
ber 15,  opened  it  noiselessly,  beckoned  silently, 
waited  until  Sam  had  stepped  over  the  thresh- 
old and  closed  the  door  upon  him.  Then  the 
man  tiptoed  back  to  the  saloon. 

Sam  looked  about  him.  The  curtains  of  the 
lower  berth  were  drawn ;  the  curtains  of  the 
upper  one  were  wide  open.  On  a  chair  was  his 
bag,  and  on  a  hook  by  the  shuttered  window 
the  cape  and  hat  of  the  wife  and  the  clothes  of 
the  sleeping  boy. 

At  the  sight  of  the  wee  jacket  and  little  half- 
breeches,  tiny  socks  and  cap,  Sam  stopped  short. 
He  had  never  before  slept  in  a  room  with  a 
child,  and  a  strange  feeling,  amounting  almost 
to  awe,  crept  over  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
stepped  suddenly  into  a  shrine  and  had  been 
confronted  by  the  altar.  The  low-turned  lamp 
and  the  silence  —  no  sound  came  from  either 
of  the  occupants  —  only  added  to  the  force  of 
the  impression. 

Sam  slipped  off  his  coat  and  shoes,  hung  the 

75 


A  MEDAL  OF  HONOR 

first  on  a  peg  and  laid  the  others  on  the  floor ; 
loosened  his  collar,  mounted  the  chair,  drew 
himself  stealthily  into  the  upper  berth ;  closed 
the  curtains  and  stretched  himself  out.  As  his 
head  touched  the  pillow  a  soft,  gentle,  rested 
voice  said  :  — 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  grateful  we  are,  sir  — 
good-night." 

"Don't  mention  it,  ma'am,"  whispered  Sam 
in  answer;  "mighty  nice  of  you  to  let  me 
come,"  and  he  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

At  the  breaking  of  the  dawn  Sam  woke  with 
a  start ;  ran  his  eye  around  the  room  until  he 
found  his  bearings ;  drew  his  legs  together  from 
the  coverlet ;  let  himself  down  as  stealthily  as 
a  cat  walking  over  teacups ;  picked  up  his  shoes, 
slipped  his  arms  into  his  coat,  gave  a  glance  at 
the  closed  curtains  sheltering  the  mother  and 
child,  and  crossed  the  room  on  his  way  to  the 
door  with  the  tread  of  a  burglar. 

Reaching  out  his  hand  in  the  dim  light  he 
studied  the  lock  for  an  instant,  settled  in  his 
mind  which  knob  to  turn  so  as  to  make  the 
least  noise,  and  swung  back  the  door. 

Outside  on  the  mat,  sound  asleep,  so  close 
that  he  almost  stepped  on  him,  lay  the  Man 
with  the  Medal. 

76 


THE  RAJAH  OF   BUNGPORE 

IT  was  the  crush  hour  at  Sherry's.  A  steady 
stream  of  men  and  women  in  smart  toi- 
lettes —  the  smartest  the  town  afforded  —  had 
flowed  in  under  the  street  awning,  through  the 
doorway  guarded  by  flunkeys,  past  the  dressing- 
rooms  and  coat-racks,  and  were  now  banked  up 
in  the  spacious  hall  waiting  for  tables,  the  men 
standing  about,  the  women  resting  on  the  chairs 
and  divans  listening  to  the  music  of  the  Hun- 
garian band  or  chatting  with  one  another.  The 
two  cafes  were  full  —  had  been  since  seven 
o'clock,  every  table  being  occupied  except  two. 
One  of  these  had  been  reserved  that  morning 
by  my  dear  friend  Marny,  the  distinguished 
painter  of  portraits,  —  1  being  his  guest,  —  and 
the  other,  so  the  head  waiter  told  us,  awaited 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  John  Stirling,  who  would 
entertain  a  party  of  six. 

When  Marny  was  a  poor  devil  of  an  illus- 
trator, and  worked  for  the  funny  column  of  the 
weekly  papers,  —  we  had  studios  in  the  same 
building,  —  we  used  to  dine  at  Porcelli's,  the 
price  of  the  two  meals  equalling  the  value  of 

77 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

one  American  trade  dollar,  and  including  one 
bottle  of  vin  ordinaire.  Now  that  Marny  wears 
a  ribbon  in  his  buttonhole,  has  a  suite  of  rooms 
that  look  like  a  museum,  man-servants  and 
maid-servants,  including  an  English  butler 
whose  principal  business  is  to  see  that  Marny 
is  not  disturbed,  a  line  of  carriages  before  his 
door  on  his  reception  days,  and  refuses  two 
portraits  a  week  at  his  own  prices  —  we  some- 
times dine  at  Sherry's. 

As  I  am  still  a  staid  old  landscape  painter 
living  up  three  flights  of  stairs  with  no  one  to 
wait  on  me  but  myself  and  the  ten-year-old 
daughter  of  the  janitor,  I  must  admit  that  these 
occasional  forays  into  the  whirl  of  fashionable 
life  afford  me  not  only  infinite  enjoyment,  but 
add  greatly  to  my  knowledge  of  human  nature. 

As  we  followed  the  waiter  into  the  cafe,  a 
group  of  half  a  dozen  men,  all  in  full  dress, 
emerged  from  a  side  room  and  preceded  us'  into 
the  restaurant,  led  by  a  handsome  young  fellow 
of  thirty.  The  next  moment  they  grouped 
themselves  about  the  other  reserved  table,  the 
young  fellow  seating  his  guests  himself,  draw- 
ing out  each  chair  with  some  remark  that  kept 
the  whole  party  laughing. 

When  we  had  settled 'into  our  own  chairs, 
and  my  host  had  spread  his  napkin  and  looked 

78 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

about  him,  the  young  fellow  nodded  his  head 
at  Marny,  clasped  his  two  hands  together,  shook 
them  together  heartily,  and  followed  this  sub- 
stitute for  a  closer  welcome  by  kissing  his  hand 
at  him. 

Marny  returned  the  courtesy  by  a  similar 
handshake,  and  bending  his  head  said  in  a  low 
voice,  "The  Rajah  must  be  in  luck  to-night." 

*'Who.?"  I  asked.  My  acquaintance  with 
foreign  potentates  is  necessarily  limited. 

"  The  Rajah  —  Jack  Stirling.  Take  a  look  at 
him.  You  '11  never  see  his  match  ;  nobody  has 
yet." 

I  shifted  my  chair  a  little,  turned  my  head  in 
the  opposite  direction,  and  then  slowly  covering 
Stirling  with  my  gaze  —  the  polite  way  of  star- 
ing at  a  stranger —  got  a  full  view  of  the  man's 
face  and  figure ;  rather  a  difficult  thing  on  a 
crowded  night  at  Sherry's,  unless  the  tables  are 
close  together.  What  I  saw  was  a  well-built, 
athletic  looking  young  man,  with  a  smooth- 
shaven  face,  laughing  eyes,  a  Cupid  mouth,  curly 
brown  hair,  and  a  fresh  ruddy  complexion ;  a 
Lord  Byron  sort  of  a  young  fellow  with  a  mod- 
ern, up-to-date  training.  He  was  evidently 
charming  his  guests,  for  every  man's  head  was 
bent  forward,  seemingly  hanging  on  each  word 
that  fell  from  his  lips. 

79 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

**  A  rajah,  is  he  ?  He  don't  look  like  an  Ori- 
ental." 

"  He  is  n't.   He  was  born  in  New  Jersey." 

•Ms  he  an  artist  ?  " 

"  Yes,  five  or  six  diiferent  kinds  ;  he  draws 
better  than  I  do ;  plays  on  three  instruments, 
and  speaks  five  languages." 

"Rich?" 

"No —  dead  broke  half  the  time." 

I  glanced  at  the  young  fellow's  faultless  ap- 
pearance and  the  group  of  men  he  was  enter- 
taining. My  eye  took  in  the  array  of  bottles,  the 
number  of  wineglasses  of  various  sizes,  and 
the  mass  of  roses  that  decorated  the  centre  of 
the  table.  Such  appointments  and  accompani- 
ments are  not  generally  the  property  of  the 
poor.  Then,  again,  I  remembered  we  were  at 
Sherry's. 

"What  does  he  do  for  a  living,  then  .?  "  I 
asked. 

"  Do  for  a  living  ?  He  does  n't  do  anything 
for  a  living.  He 's  a  purveyor  of  cheerfulness. 
He  wakes  up  every  morning  with  a  fresh  stock 
of  happiness,  more  than  he  can  use  himself,  and 
he  trades  it  off  during  the  day  for  anything  he 
can  get." 

"  What  kind  of  things  .?  "   I  was  a  little  hazy 
over  Marny's  meaning. 
80 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

"Oh,  dinners  —  social,  of  course  —  board 
bills,  tailor's  bills,  invitations  to  country  houses, 
voyages  on  yachts  —  anything  that  comes  along 
and  of  which  he  may  be  in  need  at  the  time. 
Most  interesting  man  in  town.  Everybody  loves 
him.  Known  all  over  the  world.  If  a  fellow  gets 
sick,  Stirling  waltzes  in,  fires  out  the  nurse,  puts 
on  a  linen  duster,  starts  an  alcohol  lamp  for 
gruel,  and  never  leaves  till  you  are  out  again. 
All  the  time  he  is  pumping  laughs  into  you  and 
bracing  you  up  so  that  you  get  well  twice  as 
quick.  Did  it  for  me  once  for  five  weeks  on  a 
stretch,  when  I  was  laid  up  in  my  studio  with 
inflammatory  rheumatism,  with  my  grub  bills 
hung  up  in  the  restaurant  downstairs,  and  my 
rent  three  months  overdue.  Fed  me  on  the  fat 
of  the  land,  too.  Soup  from  Delmonico's,  birds 
from  some  swell  house  up  the  Avenue,  where 
he  had  been  dining  —  sent  that  same  night  with 
the  compliments  of  his  hostess  with  a  *  Please 
forgive  me,  but  dear  Mr.  Stirling  tells  me  how 
ill  you  have  been,  and  at  his  suggestion,  and 
with  every  sympathy  for  your  sufferings  — 
please  accept.'   Oh,  I  tell  you  he  's  a  daisy  1 " 

Here  a  laugh  sounded  from  Stirling's  table. 

'*  Who 's  he  got  in  tow  now  ?  "  I  asked,  as 
my  eyes  roamed  over  the  merry  party. 

**  That  fat  fellow  in  eyeglasses  is  Crofield  the 
8i 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

banker,  and  the  hatchet-faced  man  with  white 
whiskers  is  John  Riggs  from  Denver,  President 
of  the  C.  A.  —  worth  ten  millions.  I  don't 
know  the  others  —  some  bored-to-death  fellows, 
perhaps,  starving  for  a  laugh.  Jack  ought  to 
go  slow,  for  he 's  dead  broke  —  told  me  so  yes- 
terday." 

"  Perhaps  Riggs  is  paying  for  the  dinner." 
This  was  an  impertinent  suggestion,  I  know; 
but  then  sometimes  I  can  be  impertinent  — 
especially  when  some  of  my  pet  theories  have 
to  be  defended. 

"  Not  if  Jack  invited  him.  He  's  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  sponge  on  anybody.  Inviting  a 
man  to  dinner  and  leaving  his  pocketbook  in  his 
other  coat  is  not  Jack's  way.  If  he  has  n't  got 
the  money  in  his  own  clothes,  he  '11  find  it 
somehow,  but  not  in  their  clothes." 

"Well,  but  at  times  he  must  have  ready 
money,"  I  insisted.  "  He  can't  be  living  on 
credit  all  the  time."  I  have  had  to  work  for  all 
my  pennies,  am  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind,  and 
often  live  in  constant  dread  of  the  first  of  every 
month — that  fatal  pay-day  from  which  there  is 
no  escape.  The  success,  therefore,  of  another 
fellow  along  different  and  more  luxurious  lines 
naturally  irritates  me. 

"Yes,  now  and  then  he  does  need  money. 
82 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

But  that  never  bothers  Jack.  When  his  tailer, 
or  his  shoemaker,  or  his  landlord  gets  him  into 
a  corner,  he  sends  the  bill  to  some  of  his  friends 
to  pay  for  him.  They  never  come  back  —  any- 
body would  do  Stirling  a  favor,  and  they  know 
that  he  never  calls  on  them  unless  he  is  up 
against  it  solid." 

1  instinctively  ran  over  in  my  mind  which  of 
my  own  friends  I  would  approach,  in  a  similar 
emergency,  and  the  notes  I  would  receive  in 
reply.  Stirling  must  know  rather  a  stupid  lot 
of  men  or  they  could  n't  be  buncoed  so  easily, 
1  thought. 

Soup  was  now  being  served,  and  Marny  and 
the  waiter  were  discussing  the  merits  of  certain 
vintages,  my  host  insisting  on  a  bottle  of  '84  in 
place  of  the  '82,  then  in  the  waiter's  hand. 

During  the  episode  I  had  the  opportunity 
to  study  Stirling's  table.  I  noticed  that  hardly 
a  man  entered  the  room  who  did  not  stop  and 
lay  his  hand  affectionately  on  Stirling's  shoul- 
der, bending  over  and  joining  in  the  laugh. 
His  guests,  too,  —  those  about  his  table,  — 
seemed  equally  loyal  and  happy.  Riggs's  hard 
business  face  —  evidently  a  man  of  serious  life 
—  was  beaming  with  merriment  and  twice  as 
wide,  under  Jack's  leadership,  and  Crofield 
and  the  others  were  leaning  forward,  their  eyes 

83 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

fixed  on  their  host,  waiting  for  the  point  of  his 
story,  then  breaking  out  together  in  a  simul- 
taneous laugh  that  could  be  heard  all  over  our 
part  of  the  room. 

When  Marny  had  received  the  wine  he  wanted 
—  it 's  extraordinary  how  critical  a  man's  palate 
becomes  when  his  income  is  thousands  a  year 
instead  of  dollars  —  I  opened  up  again  with  my 
battery  of  questions.  His  friend  had  upset  all  my 
formulas  and  made  a  laughing-stock  of  my  most 
precious  traditions.  "  Pay  as  you  go  and  keep 
out  of  debt "  seemed  to  belong  to  a  past  age. 

**  Speaking  of  your  friend,  the  Rajah,  as  you 
call  him,"  I  asked,  "and  his  making  his  friends 
pay  his  bills  —  does  he  ever  pay  back  ? ' ' 

"Always,  when  he  gets  it." 

"Well,  where  does  he  get  it  —  cards?  "  It 
seemed  to  me  now  that  I  saw  some  comforting 
light  ahead,  dense  as  I  am  at  times. 

"Cards!  Not  much  —  never  played  a  game 
in  his  life.   Not  that  kind  of  a  man." 

"How,  then?  "  I  wanted  the  facts.  There 
must  be  some  way  in  which  a  man  like  Stirling 
could  live,  keep  out  of  jail,  and  keep  his  friends 
— friends  like  Marny. 

"Same  way.  Just  chucks  around  cheerful- 
ness to  everybody  who  wants  it,  and  'most 
everybody  does.   As  to  ready  money,  there's 

84 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

hardly  one  of  his  rich  friends  in  the  Street  who 
hasn't  a  Jack  Stirling  account  on  his  books. 
And  they  are  always  lucky,  for  what  they  buy 
for  Jack  Stirling  is  sure  to  go  up.  Got  to  be 
a  superstition,  really.  I  know  one  broker  who 
sent  him  over  three  thousand  dollars  last  fall  — 
made  it  for  him  out  of  a  rise  in  some  coal  stock. 
Wrote  him  a  note  and  told  him  he  still  had 
two  thousand  dollars  to  his  credit  on  his  books, 
which  he  would  hold  as  a  stake  to  make  an- 
other turn  on  next  time  he  saw  a  sure  thing 
in  sight.  I  was  with  Jack  when  he  opened  the 
letter.  What  do  you  think  he  did  ?  He  pulled 
out  his  bureau  drawer,  found  a  slip  of  paper 
containing  a  list  of  his  debts,  sat  down  and 
wrote  out  a  check  for  each  one  of  his  creditors 
and  inclosed  them  in  the  most  charming  little 
notes  with  marginal  sketches  —  some  in  water- 
color —  which  every  man  of  them  preserves 
now  as  souvenirs.  I  've  got  one  framed  in  my 
studio  —  regular  little  Fortuny  —  and  the  check 
is  framed  in  with  it.  Never  cashed  it  and  never 
will.  The  Rajah,  I  tell  you,  old  man,  is  very 
punctilious  about  his  debts,  no  matter  how 
small  they  are.  Gave  me  fifteen  shillings  last 
time  I  went  to  Cairo  to  pay  some  duffer  that 
lived  up  a  street  back  of  Shepheard's,  a  red- 
faced  Englishman  who'  had  helped  Jack  out  of 

85 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

a  hole  the  year  before,  and  who  would  have 
pensioned  the  Rajah  for  life  if  he  could  have 
induced  him  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  years  with 
him.  And  he  only  saw  him  for  two  days ! 
That 's  the  funny  thing  about  Jack.  He  never 
forgets  his  creditors,  and  his  creditors  never 
forget  him.  I  Ml  tell  you  about  this  old  Cairo 
lobster  —  that 's  what  he  looked  like  —  red  and 
claw-y. 

"When  I  found  him  he  was  stretched  in  a 
chair  trying  to  cool  off ;  he  did  n't  even  have 
the  decency  to  get  on  his  feet. 

**  *  Who  ?'  he  snapped  out.  Just  as  if  I  had 
been  a  book  agent. 

**  *Mr.  John  Stirling  of  New  York.' 

**  *  Owes  me  fifteen  shillings  ? ' 

"  *  That 's  what  he  said,  and  here  it  is,*  and 
I  handed  him  the  silver. 

"'Young  man,'  he  says,  glowering  at  me, 
*  I  don't  know  what  your  game  is,  but  I  '11  tell 
you  right  here  you  can't  play  it  on  me.  Never 
heard  of  M/s/^r-John-Stirling-of-New-York  in 
my  life.  So  you  can  put  your  money  back.' 
I  was  n't  going  to  be  whipped  by  the  old  shell- 
fish, and  then  I  did  n't  like  the  way  he  spoke  of 
Jack.  I  knew  he  was  the  right  man,  for  Jack 
does  n't  make  mistakes  —  not  about  things  like 
that.  So  I  went  at  him  on  another  tack. 
86 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

**  *  Were  n't  you  up  at  Philag  two  years  ago 
in  a  dahabieh  ? ' 

" '  Yes.' 

**  *  And  did  n't  you  meet  four  or  five  young 
Americans  who  came  up  on  the  steamer,  and 
who  got  into  a  scrape  over  their  fare  ? ' 

***l  might  —  I  can't  recollect  everybody  I 
meet  —  don't  want  to  —  half  of  'em' —  All 
this  time  I  was  standing,  remember. 

** '  And  did  n't  you*  —  I  was  going  on  to  say, 
but  he  jumped  from  his  chair  and  was  fumbling 
about  a  bookcase. 

"  *  Ah,  here  it  is !  *  he  cried  out.  '  Here  's  a 
book  of  photographs  of  a  whole  raft  of  young 
fellows  I  met  up  the  Nile  on  that  trip.  Most  of 
*em  owed  me  something  and  still  do.  Pick  out 
the  man  now  you  say  owes  me  fifteen  shillings 
and  wants  to  pay  it.' 

"  'There  he  is  —  one  of  those  three.' 

**  The  old  fellow  adjusted  his  glasses. 

"  'The  Rajah  !  That  man!  Know  him?  Best 
lad  I  ever  met  in  my  life.  I  'm  damned  if  I  take 
his  money,  and  you  can  go  home  and  tell  him 
so.'  He  did,  though,  and  I  sat  with  him  until 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning  talking  about  Jack, 
and  I  had  all  I  could  do  getting  away  from  him 
then.  Wanted  me  to  move  in  next  day  bag 
and  baggage,  and  stay  a  month  with  him.   He 

87 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

was  n't  so  bad  when  1  came  to  know  him,  if  he 
was  red  and  claw-y." 

I  again  devoted  my  thoughts  to  the  dinner  — 
what  I  could  spare  from  the  remarkable  person- 
age Marny  had  been  discussing,  and  who  still 
sat  within  a  few  tables  of  us.  My  friend's  story 
had  opened  up  a  new  view  of  life,  one  that  I  had 
never  expected  to  see  personified  in  any  one 
man.  The  old-fashioned  rules  by  which  I  had 
been  brought  up  —  the  rules  of  "An  eye  for  an 
eye,"  and  "Earn  thy  bread  by  the  sweat  of 
thy  brow,"  etc.  —  seemed  to  have  lost  their 
meaning.  The  Rajah's  method,  it  seemed  to 
me,  if  persisted  in,  might  help  solve  the  new 
problem  of  the  day —  "  the  joy  of  living  "  —  al- 
ways a  colossal  joke  with  me.  1  determined  to 
know  something  more  of  this  lazy  apostle  in  a 
dress  suit  who  dispensed  sweetness  and  light  at 
some  other  fellow's  expense. 

"Why  do  you  call  him  'The  Rajah,' 
Marny  .?  "  I  asked. 

"Oh,  he  got  that  in  India.  A  lot  of  people 
like  that  old  lobster  in  Cairo  don't  know  him 
by  any  other  name." 

"  What  did  he  do  in  India  }  " 

"Nothing  in  particular  —  just  kept  on  being 
himself  —  just  as  he  does  everywhere." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 
88 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

**  Well,  I  got  it  from  Ashburton,  a  member 
of  the  Alpine  Club  in  London.  But  every  body- 
knows  the  story —  wonder  you  have  n't  heard 
it.  You  ought  to  come  out  of  your  hole,  old 
man,  and  see  what 's  going  on  in  the  world. 
You  live  up  in  that  den  of  yours,  and  the  pro- 
cession goes  by  and  you  don't  even  hear  the 
band.  You  ought  to  know  Jack  —  he  'd  do  you 
a  lot  of  good,"  and  Marny  looked  at  me  curi- 
ously—  as  a  physician  would,  who,  when  he 
prescribes  for  you,  tells  you  only  one  half  of 
your  ailment. 

I  did  not  interrupt  my  friend  —  I  was  n't  get- 
ting thousands  for  a  child's  head,  and  twice 
that  price  for  the  mother  in  green  silk  and  dia- 
monds. And  I  could  n't  afford  to  hang  out  my 
window  and  watch  any  kind  of  procession, 
figurative  or  otherwise.  Nor  could  I  afford  to 
exchange  dinners  with  John  Stirling. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  about  that 
time  the  Rajah  had  in  India  ?  Well,  move  your 
glass  this  way,"  and  my  host  picked  up  the 
'84.  "Ashburton,"  continued  Marny,  and  he 
filled  my  glass  to  the  brim,  "  is  one  of  those 
globe-trotters  who  does  mountain-tops  for  exer- 
cise. He  knows  the  Andes  as  well  as  he  does 
the  glaciers  in  Switzerland;  has  been  up  the 
Matterhorn  and   Mont  Blanc,  and  every  other 

89 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

snow-capped  peak  within  reach,  and  so  he 
thought  he  'd  try  the  Himalayas.  You  know 
how  these  Englishmen  are  — the  rich  ones.  At 
twenty-five  a  good  many  of  them  have  ex- 
hausted life.  Some  shoot  tigers,  some  fit  out  cara- 
vans and  cross  deserts,  some  get  lost  in  African 
jungles,  and  some  come  here  and  go  out  West 
for  big  game ;  anything  that  will  keep  them  from 
being  bored  to  death  before  they  are  thirty-five 
years  of  age.   Ashburton  was  that  kind. 

**  He  had  only  been  home  ten  days  —  he  had 
spent  two  years  in  Yucatan  looking  up  Toltec 
ruins  —  when  this  Himalaya  trip  got  into  his 
head.  Question  was,  whom  could  he  get  to  go 
with  him,  for  these  fellows  hate  to  be  alone. 
Some  of  the  men  he  wanted  had  n't  returned  from 
their  own  wild-goose  chases ;  others  could  n't 
get  away,  —  one  was  running  for  Parliament, 
I  think,  — and  so  Ashburton,  cursing  his  luck, 
had  about  made  up  his  mind  to  try  it  alone, 
when  he  ran  across  Jack  one  day  in  the  club. 

"  *  Hello,  Stirling !  Thought  you  'd  sailed  for 
America.' 

"  *No,'  said  Jack,  'I  go  next  week.  What 
are  you  doing  here  ?  Thought  you  had  gone  to 
India.' 

"  'Can't  get  anybody  to  go  with  me,*  an- 
swered Ashburton. 

90 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

"  *  Where  do  you  go  first  ? ' 

'"To  Calcutta  by  steamer,  and  then  strike 
in  and  up  to  the  foot-hills.' 

"  *  For  how  long  ?  ' 

** '  About  a  year.  Come  with  me  like  a  de- 
cent man.' 

"'Can't.  Only  got  money  enough  to  get 
home,  and  I  don't  like  climbing.' 

* '  *  Money  has  n't  got  anything  to  do  with  it  — 
you  go  as  my  guest.  As  to  climbing,  you  won't 
have  to  climb  an  inch.  I  '11  leave  you  at  the  foot- 
hills in  a  bungalow,  with  somebody  to  take  care 
of  you,  and  you  can  stay  there  until  I  come  back.' 

"  '  How  long  will  you  be  climbing  .?  ' 

"  '  About  two  months.' 

** '  When  do  you  start  ? ' 

"  'To-morrow,  at  daylight.' 

"'All  right,  I'll  be  on  board.' 

"Going  out,  Jack  got  up  charades  and  all 
sorts  of  performances ;  rescued  a  man  overboard, 
striking  the  water  about  as  soon  as  the  man 
did,  and  holding  on  to  him  until  the  lifeboat 
reached  them ;  studied  navigation  and  took 
observations  every  day  until  he  learned  how ; 
started  a  school  for  the  children  —  there  were  a 
dozen  on  board  —  and  told  them  fairy  tales  by 
the  hour ;  and  by  the  time  the  steamer  reached 
Calcutta  every  man,  woman,  and  child  had  fallen 
91 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

in  love  with  him.  One  old  Maharajah,  who  was 
on  board,  took  such  a  fancy  to  him  that  he  in- 
sisted on  Jack's  spending  a  year  with  him,  and 
there  came  near  being  a  precious  row  when  he 
refused,  which  of  course  he  had  to  do,  being 
Ashburton's  guest. 

"When  the  two  got  to  where  Jack  was  to 
camp  out  and  wait  for  Ashburton's  return  from 
his  climb  —  it  was  a  little  spot  called  Bungpore 
— the  Englishman  fitted  up  a  place  just  as  he 
said  he  would  ;  left  two  men  to  look  after  him 
—  one  to  cook  and  the  other  to  wait  on  him  — 
fell  on  Jack's  neck,  for  he  hated  the  worst 
kind  to  leave  him,  and  disappeared  into  the 
brush  with  his  retainers  —  or  whatever  he  did 
disappear  into  and  with  —  1  never  climbed 
the  Himalayas,  and  so  I  'm  a  little  hazy  over 
these  details.  And  that 's  the  last  Ashbur- 
ton  saw  of  Jack  until  he  returned  two  months 
later." 

Marny  emptied  his  glass,  flicked  the  ashes 
from  his  cigarette,  beckoned  to  the  waiter,  and 
gave  him  an  order  for  a  second  bottle  of  '84. 
During  the  break  in  the  story  1  made  another 
critical  examination  of  the  hero,  as  he  sat  sur- 
rounded by  his  guests,  his  face  beaming,  the 
light  falling  on  his  immaculate  shirt-front.  I 
noted  the  size  of  his  arm  and  the  depth  of  his 
92 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

chest,  and  his  lithe,  muscular  thighs.  I  noticed, 
too,  how  quickly  he  gained  his  feet  when  wel- 
coming a  friend,  who  had  just  stopped  at  his 
table.  I  understood  now  how  the  drowning 
sailor  came  to  be  saved. 

The  wine  matter  settled,  Marny  took  some 
fresh  cigarettes  from  his  silver  case,  passed  one 
to  me,  and  held  a  match  to  both  in  turn.  Be- 
tween the  puffs  I  again  brought  the  talk  back 
to  the  man  who  now  interested  me  intensely. 
I  was  afraid  we  would  be  interrupted  and  I  have 
to  wait  before  finding  out  why  his  friend  was 
called  the  "Rajah." 

**  I  should  think  he  would  have  gone  with 
him  instead  of  staying  behind  and  living  off  his 
bounty,"  I  ventured. 

"Yes — 1  know  you  would,  old  man,  but  Jack 
thought  differently,  not  being  built  along  your 
lines.  You  've  got  to  know  him  —  I  tell  you, 
he  '11  do  you  a  lot  of  good.  Stirling  saw  that, 
if  he  went,  it  would  only  double  Ashburton's 
expense  account,  and  so  he  squatted  down  to 
wait  with  just  money  enough  to  get  along  those 
two  months,  and  not  another  cent.  Told  Ash- 
burton  he  wanted  to  learn  Hindustanee,  and  he 
could  n't  do  it  if  he  was  sliding  down  glaciers 
and  getting  his  feet  wet  —  it  would  keep  him 
from  studying." 

93 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

"And  was  Stirling  waiting  for  him  when 
Ash  burton  came  back  ?  " 

"Waiting  for  him!  Well,  I  guess!  First 
thing  Ashburton  ran  up  against  was  one  of  the 
blackamoors  he  had  hired  to  take  care  of  Jack. 
When  he  had  left  the  fellow  he  was  clothed  in 
a  full  suit  of  yellow  dust  with  a  rag  around  his 
loins.  Now  he  was  gotten  up  in  a  red  turban 
and  pajamas  trimmed  with  gewgaws.  The 
blackamoor  prostrated  himself  and  began  ko- 
towing backward  toward  a  marquee  erected  on 
a  little  knoll  under  some  trees  and  surrounded 
by  elephants  in  gorgeous  trappings.  'The 
Rajah  of  Bungpore  '  —  that  was  Jack  —  'had 
sent  him,'  he  said,  '  to  conduct  his  Royal  High- 
ness into  the  presence  of  his  illustrious  master ! ' 

"When  Ashburton  reached  the  door  of  the 
marquee  and  peered  in,  he  saw  Jack  lying  back 
on  an  Oriental  couch  at  the  other  end  smoking 
the  pipe  of  the  country  —  whatever  that  was  — 
and  surrounded  by  a  collection  of  Hottentots  of 
various  sizes  and  colors,  who  fell  on  their  fore- 
heads every  time  Jack  crooked  his  finger.  At 
his  feet  knelt  two  Hindoo  merchants  displaying 
their  wares  —  pearls,  ivories,  precious  stones, 
arms,  porcelains  —  stuffs  of  a  quality  and  price, 
Ashburton  told  me,  that  took  his  breath  away. 
Jack  kept  on  —  he  made  out  he  did  n't  see  Ash- 

94 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

burton  —  his  slaves  bearing  the  purchases  away 
and  depositing  them  on  a  low  inlaid  table  — 
teak  wood,  1  guess  —  in  one  corner  of  the  mar- 
quee, while  a  confidential  Lord  of  the  Treasury- 
took  the  coin  of  the  realm  from  a  bag  or  gourd  — 
or  whatever  he  did  take  it  from  —  and  paid  the 
shot. 

"  When  the  audience  was  over,  Jack  waved 
everybody  outside  with  a  commanding  gesture, 
and  still  lolling  on  his  rugs  —  or  maybe  his 
tiger  skins  —  told  his  Grand  Vizier  to  conduct 
the  strange  man  to  his  august  presence.  Then 
Jack  rose  from  this  throne,  dismissed  the  Grand 
Vizier,  and  fell  into  Ashburton's  arms  roaring 
with  laughter." 

"  And  Ashburton  had  to  foot  the  bills,  I  sup- 
pose," I  blurted  out.  It  is  astonishing  how  sus- 
picious and  mean  a  man  gets  sometimes  who 
mixes  as  little  as  I  do  with  what  Marny  calls 
"the  swim." 

"Ashburton  foot  the  bills !  Not  much!  Listen, 
you  six  by  nine!  Stirling  hadn't  been  alone 
more  than  a  week  when  along  comes  the  Maha- 
rajah he  had  met  on  the  steamer.  He  lived  up 
in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  one  of  his  pri- 
vate detectives  had  told  him  that  somebody 
was  camping  out  on  his  lot.  Down  he  came  in 
a  white  heat,  with  a  bag  of  bow-strings  and  a 

95 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

squad  of  the  'Finest'  in  pink  trousers  and 
spears.  I  get  these  details  all  wrong,  old  man 
— they  might  have  been  in  frock-coats  for  all 
I  know  or  care  —  but  what  I'm  after  is  the 
Oriental  atmosphere  —  a  sort  of  property  back- 
ground with  my  principal  figure  high  up  on 
the  canvas  —  and  one  costume  is  as  good  as 
another. 

"When  the  old  Maharajah  found  out  it  was 
Jack  instead  of  some  squatter,  he  fell  all  over 
himself  with  joy.  Wanted  to  take  him  up  to 
his  marble  palace,  open  up  everything,  unlock 
a  harem,  trot  out  a  half-dozen  chorus  girls  in 
bangles  and  mosquito-net  bloomers,  and  do  a  lot 
of  comfortable  things  for  him.  But  Jack  said 
No.  He  was  put  here  to  stay,  and  here  he  was 
going  to  stay  if  he  had  t©  call  out  every  man  in 
his  army.  The  old  fellow  saw  the  joke  and  said 
all  right,  here  he  should  stay ;  and  before  night 
he  had  moved  down  a  tent,  and  a  bodyguard, 
and  an  elephant  or  two  for  local  color,  so  as 
to  make  it  real  Oriental  for  Jack,  and  the  next 
day  he  sent  him  down  a  bag  of  gold,  and  ser- 
vants, and  a  cook.  Every  pedler  who  appeared 
after  that  he  passed  along  to  Jack,  and  before 
Ashburton  turned  up  Stirling  had  a  collection  of 
curios  worth  a  fortune.  One  half  of  them  he 
gave  to  Ashburton  and  the  other  half  he  brought 

96 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

home  to  his  friends.  That  inlaid  elephant's  tusk 
hanging  up  in  my  studio  is  one  of  them  —  you 
remember  it." 

As  Marny  finished,  one  of  the  waiters  who 
had  been  serving  Stirling  and  his  guests  ap- 
proached our  table  under  the  direction  of  the 
Rajah's  finger,  and,  bending  over  Marny,  whis- 
pered something  in  his  ear.  He  had  the  cashier's 
slip  in  his  hand  and  Stirling's  visiting  card. 

Marny  laid  the  bill  beside  his  plate,  glanced 
at  the  card  with  a  laugh,  his  face  lighting  up, 
and  then  passed  it  to  me.  It  read  as  follows : 
**  Not  a  red  and  no  credit.   Sign  it  for  Jack." 

Marny  raised  his  eyes,  nodded  his  head  at 
Stirling,  kissed  his  finger-tips  at  him,  fished  up 
his  gold  chain,  slid  out  a  pencil  dangling  at  its 
end,  wrote  his  name  across  the  slip,  and  said 
in  a  whisper  to  the  waiter :  **  Take  this  to  the 
manager  and  have  him  charge  it  to  my  account." 

When  we  had  finished  our  dinner  and  were 
passing  out  abreast  of  Stirling's  table,  the  Rajah 
rose  to  his  feet,  his  guests  all  standing  about 
him,  their  glasses  in  their  hands  —  Riggs's 
whiskers  stood  straight,  he  was  so  happy  — 
and,  waving  his  own  glass  toward  my  host, 
said  :  **  Gentlemen,  I  give  you  Marny,  the 
Master,  the  Velasquez  of  modern  times  !  " 


97 


THE  RAJAH  OF  BUNGPORE 

Some  weeks  later  1  called  at  Marny's  studio. 
He  was  out.  On  the  easel  stood  a  full-length 
portrait  of  Riggs,  the  millionaire,  his  thin, 
hatchet-shaped  face  and  white  whiskers  in  high 
relief  against  a  dark  background.  Scattered 
about  the  room  were  smaller  heads  bearing  a 
strong  resemblance  to  the  great  president.  Jack 
had  evidently  corralled  the  entire  family  —  and 
all  out  of  that  dinner  at  Sherry's. 

I  shut  the  door  of  Marny's  studio  softly 
behind  me,  tiptoed  downstairs,  dropped  into  a 
restaurant  under  the  sidewalk,  and  dined  alone. 

Marny  is  right.  The  only  way  to  hear  the 
band  is  to  keep  up  with  the  procession. 

My  philosophy  is  a  failure. 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

THE  Via  Garibaldi  is  astir  to-day.  From 
the  Ponte  Veneta  Marina,  next  the  caff^ 
of  the  same  name  —  it  is  but  a  step  —  to  the 
big  iron  gates  of  the  Public  Gardens,  is  a  mov- 
ing throng  of  Venetians,  their  chatter  filling 
the  soft  September  air.  Flags  are  waving  —  all 
kinds  of  flags,  and  of  all  colors  ;  gay  lanterns  of 
quaint  patterns  are  festooned  from  window  to 
window ;  old  velvets  and  rare  stuffs,  some  in 
rags  and  tatters,  so  often  have  they  been  used, 
stream  out  from  the  balconies  crowded  with 
pretty  Venetians  shading  their  faces  with  their 
parasols  as  they  watch  the  crowds  below.  In 
and  out  of  this  mass  of  holiday-makers  move  the 
pedlers  crying  their  wares,  some  selling  figs, 
their  scales  of  polished  brass  jingling  as  they 
walk ;  some  with  gay  handkerchiefs  and  scarfs 
draped  about  their  trays ;  here  and  there  one 
stands  beside  a  tripod  holding  a  big  earthen  dish 
filled  with  fulpi  —  miniature  devil-fish  about  as 
big  as  a  toad  —  so  ugly  that  no  man,  however 
hungry,  except,  perhaps,  a  Venetian,  dares 
swallow  one  with  his  eyes  open. 

99 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

Along  this  stretch  of  waving  flags,  gay-colored 
lanterns,  and  joyous  people,  are  two  places 
where  the  throngs  are  thickest.  One  is  the 
Caff^  Veneta  Marina,  its  door  within  a  cigarette's 
toss  of  the  first  step  of  the  curving  bridge  of 
the  same  name,  and  the  other  is  the  Caff^ 
Beneto,  a  smaller  caff^  farther  down  the  wide 
street  —  wide  for  Venice.  The  Caff^  Veneta 
Marina  contains  but  a  single  room  level  with  the 
street,  and  on  gala  days  its  tables  and  chairs 
are  pushed  quite  out  upon  the  marble  flags. 
The  Caff^  Beneto  runs  through  to  the  waters 
of  the  Grand  Canal  and  opens  on  a  veranda 
fitted  with  a  short  flight  of  steps  at  which  the 
gondolas  often  land  their  passengers. 

These  two  caffes  are  the  headquarters  of  two 
opposing  factions  of  gondoliers,  enemies  for 
centuries,  since  the  founding  of  their  guild,  in 
fact  —  the  Nicolletti,  whose  caps  in  the  old  days 
were  black,  and  the  Castellani,  whose  caps  were 
red.  The  first  were  publicans,  renowned  for 
their  prowess  with  the  oar,  but  rough  and  out- 
spoken, boastful  in  victory,  bitter  in  defeat. 
The  second  were  aristocrats,  serving  the  Doge 
and  often  of  great  service  to  the  State  —  men 
distinguished  for  their  courtesy  as  well  as  for 
their  courage.  These  attributes  have  followed 
these  two  guilds  down  to  the  present  day. 

100 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

Every  year  when  the  leaves  of  the  sycamores 
in  the  Public  Gardens  fade  into  brown  gold,  and 
the  great  dome  of  the  Salute,  glistening  like  a 
huge  pink  pearl,  looms  above  the  soft  September 
haze  that  blurs  the  water-line,  these  two  guilds 
—  the  NicoUetti  and  Castellani  —  meet  in  com- 
bat, each  producing  its  best  oarsmen. 

To-day  the  course  is  from  the  wall  of  the  Pub- 
lic Gardens  to  the  Lido  and  back.  Young  Fran- 
cesco Portera,  the  idol  of  the  shipyards,  a  big- 
boned  Venetian,  short-armed  and  strong,  is  to 
row  for  the  NicoUetti,  and  Luigi  Zanaletto,  a  man 
near  twice  his  age,  for  the  Castellani. 

For  days  there  has  been  no  other  talk  than 
this  gondola  race.  Never  in  any  September  has 
the  betting  run  so  high.  So  great  is  the  inter- 
est in  the  contest  that  every  morning  for  a  week 
the  line  of  people  at  the  Monte  di  Pieti  —  the 
Government  pawn  shop — has  extended  out  into 
the  great  corridor  of  the  Palazzo,  every  arm  and 
pocket  filled  with  clothing,  jewels,  knickknacks, 
everything  the  owners  can  and  cannot  spare,  to 
be  pawned  in  exchange  for  the  money  needed 
to  bet  on  this  race. 

There  is  good  cause  for  this  unusual  excite- 
ment. While  Luigi  is  known  as  the  successful 
winner  of  the  four  annual  races  preceding  this 
one,  carrying  the  flag  of  the  Castellani  to  vic- 

lOI 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANl 

twy  against  all  comers,  and  each  year  a  new 
contestant,  many  of  his  enemies  insist  that  the 
pace  has  told  on  him  ;  that  despite  his  great 
reach  of  arm  and  sinewy  legs,  his  strength,  by 
reason  of  his  age,  —  they  are  all  old  at  forty  in 
Venice  (except  the  Castellani),  —  is  failing,  and 
that  for  him  to  win  this  fifth  and  last  race  would 
be  more  than  any  guild  could  expect,  glorious 
as  would  be  the  result.  Others,  more  knowing, 
argued  that  while  Francesco  had  an  arm  like  a 
blacksmith  and  could  strike  a  blow  that  would 
fell  an  ox,  he  lacked  that  refinement  of  training 
which  made  the  ideal  oarsman ;  that  it  was  not 
so  much  the  size  or  quality  of  the  muscles  as  it 
was  the  man  who  used  them ;  that  blood  and 
brains  were  more  than  brute  force. 

Still  another  feature  added  zest  and  interest  to 
the  race,  especially  to  members  of  the  opposing 
guilds.  There  was  an  unwritten  law  of  Venice 
that  no  man  of  either  guild  could  win  more  than 
five  races  in  succession  —  a  foolish  law,  many 
thought,  for  no  oarsman  had  accomplished  it. 
This  done,  the  victor  retired  on  his  laurels. 
Ever  after  he  became  Primo  — the  envied  of  his 
craft,  the  well-beloved  of  all  the  women  of  his 
quarter,  young  and  old  alike.  Should  Luigi 
Zanaletto  win  this  fifth  race,  no  NicoUetti  could 
show  their  faces  for  very  shame  on  the  Piazza. 

102 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

For  weeks  thereafter  they  would  be  made  the 
butt  of  the  good-natured  badinage  of  the  popu- 
lace. If,  however,  Luigi  should  lose  this  fifth 
and  last  race,  the  spell  would  be  broken  and 
some  champion  of  the  Nicolletti  —  perhaps  this 
very  Francesco,  with  the  initiative  of  this  race, 
might  gain  succeeding  victories,  and  so  the  Nicol- 
letti regain  the  ground  they  had  lost  through 
Luigi's  former  prowess. 

Those  of  his  guild,  however,  those  who  knew 
and  loved  Luigi,  had  no  such  misgivings  as  to 
the  outcome.  They  lost  no  sleep  over  his  ex- 
pected defeat.  As  their  champion  stepped  from 
his  gondola  this  beautiful  September  morning, 
laying  his  oar  along  its  side,  and  mounted  the 
marble  steps  of  the  landing  opposite  the  Caff^ 
Veneta  Marina,  those  who  got  close  enough  to 
note  his  superb  condition  only  added  to  their 
wagers.  Six  feet  and  an  inch,  straight,  with 
willowy  arms  strengthened  by  steel  cords  tied 
in  knots  above  the  elbows,  hauled  taut  along 
the  wrists  and  anchored  in  the  hands  —  grips 
of  steel,  these  hands,  with  thumbs  and  forefin- 
gers strong  as  the  jaws  of  a  vice  (he  wields 
and  guides  his  oar  with  these)  ;  waist  like  a 
woman's,  the  ribs  outlined  through  the  cross- 
barred  boating  shirt;  back  and  stomach  in- 
curved, laced  and  clamped  by  a  red  sash ; 
103 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

thighs  and  calves  of  lapped  leather ;  shoulders 
a  beam  of  wood  —  square,  hard,  unyielding ; 
neck  an  upward  sweep  tanned  to  a  ruddy 
brown,  ending  in  a  mass  of  black  hair,  curly  as 
a  dog's  and  as  strong  and  glistening. 

And  his  face !  Stop  some  morning  before 
the  church  of  Santi  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  and  look 
up  into  the  face  of  the  great  Colleoni  as  he  sits 
bestride  his  bronze  horse,  and  ask  the  noble 
soldier  to  doff  his  helmet.  Then  follow  the 
firm  lines  of  the  mouth,  the  wide  brow,  strong 
nose,  and  iron  chin.  Add  to  this  a  skin  bronzed 
to  copper  by  the  sun,  a  pair  of  laughing  eyes, 
and  an  out-pointed  mustache,  and  you  have 
Luigi. 

And  the  air  of  the  man  !  Only  gondoliers, 
of  all  serving-men,  have  this  humble  fearless- 
ness of  manner  —  a  manner  which  combines 
the  dignity  of  the  patrician  with  the  humility 
of  the  servant.  It  is  their  calling  which  marks 
the  difference.  Small  as  is  the  gondola  among 
all  water  craft,  the  gondolier  is  yet  its  master, 
free  to  come  and  free  to  go.  The  wide  stretch 
of  the  sea  is  his  —  not  another's  :  a  sea  hemmed 
about  by  the  palaces  of  ancestors  who  for  ten 
centuries  dominated  the  globe. 

But  Luigi  is  stiH  standing  on  the  marble 
104 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLAN! 

steps  of  the  landing  opposite  the  Caffe  Veneta 
Marina  this  lovely  September  day,  doffing  his  cap 
to  the  admiring  throng,  just  as  Colleoni  would 
have  doffed  his,  and  with  equal  grace.  Not  the 
red  cap  of  his  guild  —  that  has  been  laid  aside 
for  two  centuries  —  but  his  wide  straw  hat,  with 
his  colors  wound  about  it. 

As  he  made  his  way  slowly  through  the 
crowd  toward  the  caff^,  an  old  woman  who  had 
been  waiting  for  him  —  wrinkled,  gray-haired, 
a  black  shawl  about  her  head  held  tight  to  the 
chin  by  her  skinny  fingers,  her  eyes  peering 
from  its  folds  —  stepped  in  front  of  him.  She 
lived  near  his  home  and  was  godmother  to  one 
of  his  children. 

"  Luigi  Zanaletto  !  "  she  cried,  catching  him 
by  the  wrist. 

"Yes,  good  mother." 

"  That  idiot  Marco  told  my  Amalia  last  night 
that  you  will  lose  the  race.  He  has  been  to  the 
Pieta  and  will  bet  all  his  money  on  Francesco." 

**  And  why  not,  good  mother  ?  Why  do 
you  worry  ?  " 

"Because  the  two  fools  will  have  no  money 
to  be  married  on.  They  are  called  in  San  Rosa- 
rio  next  Sunday,  and  the  next  is  their  wedding- 
day.  He  has  pawned  the  boat  his  uncle  gave 
him." 

105 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

**And  if  he  wins?" 

"He  will  not  win,  Luigi.  When  that  brute 
came  in  from  the  little  race  we  had  last  week  I 
was  passing  in  a  sandolo  on  my  way  to  San 
Giorgio,  He  was  panting  like  a  child  after  a 
run.  If  he  had  no  breath  left  in  him  then,  where 
will  he  be  to-day  ?  " 

**  One  cannot  tell,  good  mother.  Who  told 
the  boy  I  would  lose  the  race  ?" 

"Beppo  Cavalli." 

"Ah  !  the  Nicolletti,"  muttered  Luigi. 

"Yes." 

"  He  has  a  boy,  too,  has  he  not,  good  mo- 
ther .?  " 

"Yes,  Amalia  loved  him  once;  now  she 
loves  Marco.  These  girls  are  like  the  wind, 
Luigi.   They  never  blow  two  days  alike." 

Luigi  stopped  and  looked  out  toward  the 
lagoon.  He  knew  Cavalli.  In  summer  he  rowed 
a  barca ;  in  winter  he  kept  a  wine  shop  and 
sold  untaxed  salt  and  smuggled  cigarettes  to 
his  customers.  The  crowd  pressed  closer,  lis- 
tening. 

"Beppo  Cavalli,  good  mother,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  means  ill  to  the  boy  Marco  and  to 
your  daughter.  The  Cavallis  are  not  backing 
Francesco.  They  talk  loud,  but  there  is  not  a 
soldo  for  him  among  them.  Cavalli  would  get 
io6 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

that  girl  for  his  son ;  she  is  pretty  and  would 
bring  customers  to  his  shop.  Where  is  Marco?  " 

"  He  is  at  the  Caff^  Beneto  with  Cavalli  and 
Francesco.  I  have  tired  my  tongue  out  talking 
to  Marco,  and  so  has  Amalia.  His  head  is  fixed 
like  a  stone.  Francesco  is  getting  ready  for  this 
afternoon,  but  it  will  do  him  no  good.  He  has 
not  arms  like  this.  Is  it  not  so,  men  ?  "  —  and 
she  lifted  Luigi's  arm  and  held  it  up  that  the 
crowd  might  see. 

A  great  cheer  went  up  in  answer,  and  was 
echoed  by  the  crowd  about  the  caffe  door. 
Luigi  among  the  people  of  his  quarter  was  like 
their  religion. 

The  champion  had  now  reached  one  of  the 
tables  of  the  caffe.  Drawing  out  a  chair,  he 
bent  forward,  shook  hands  with  old  Guido,  the 
proprietor,  crooked  his  fingers  gallantly  at  a 
group  of  women  in  an  overhanging  balcony, 
and  was  just  taking  his  seat  when  a  young  girl 
edged  her  way  through  the  circle  and  slipped 
her  arm  around  the  woman's  neck.  She  had 
the  low  brow  surmounted  by  masses  of  jet- 
black  hair,  drooping,  sleepy  eyelids  shading 
slumbering,  passionate  eyes,  sensitive  sweet 
mouth,  and  oval  face  common  to  her  class. 
About  her  shoulders  was  draped  a  black  shawl, 
its  fringes  lost  in  the  folds  of  her  simple  gown. 
107 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

"  Oh,  Amalia  !  "  cried  the  woman,  "has  this 
boy  of  yours  given  up  his  money  yet  ?  ' ' 

"  No,  mother,  he  has  promised  to  wait  till  I 
come  back.  Marco  is  like  a  wild  man  when  I 
talk.  I  thought  Luigi  would  speak  to  him  if 
I  asked  him.  Please,  dear  Luigi,  do  not  let  him 
lose  his  money.  We  are  ruined  if  he  bets  on 
Francesco." 

Luigi  reached  out  his  hand  and  drew  the  girl 
toward  him.  His  own  daughter  at  home  had  just 
such  a  look  in  her  eyes  whenever  she  was  in 
trouble  and  came  to  him  for  help. 

"  How  much  will  he  bet,  child  ?  "  he  asked 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  Every  soldo  he  has.  Cavalli  talks  to  him 
all  the  time.  They  are  like  crazy  people  over 
there  at  the  Beneto.  Ah,  good  Luigi,  do  not  win ! 
I  am  so  unhappy  ! ' '  and  the  tears  gathered  in 
her  eyes. 

Luigi,  still  holding  her  hand,  laughed  gently 
as  he  looked  up  into  her  face.  The  others  who 
had  heard  the  girl's  plea  laughed  with  him. 

**  Go,  child,  and  bring  Marco  here  to  me. 
Cavalli  shall  not  ruin  you  both,  if  I  can  help  it." 

The  girl  pushed  her  hair  back  from  her  flushed 

face,  drew  her  shawl  closer  about  her  shoulders, 

bent  her  pretty  head,  wormed  her  way  out  of 

the  dense  throng  pressing  in  upon  the  table,  and 

io8 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

ran  with  all  her  might  toward  the  Caffe  Beneto, 
followed  by  her  mother. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  two  were  back  again, 
their  arms  fast  locked  in  those  of  a  young  fellow 
of  twenty — they  marry  young  under  Italian 
suns  —  who  stood  looking  at  Luigi  with  curious, 
wondering  eyes.  Not  that  he  did  not  know  the 
champion — every  man  in  Venice  knew  him  — 
but  because  Cavalli  had  pictured  Luigi  as  of 
doubtful  strength,  and  the  Luigi  before  him  did 
not  fit  Cavalli's  measure. 

"  Marco,"  said  Luigi,  a  smile  crossing  his 
face. 

*'Yes,Signore  Zanaletto,"  answered  the  boy. 

"Come  nearer." 

The  young  fellow  advanced  to  the  table.  The 
others  who  had  been  near  enough  to  learn  of 
the  girl's  errand  crowded  the  closer.  Every  ut- 
terance of  a  champion  on  a  day  like  this  is  of 
value. 

**  You  should  be  at  work,  boy,  not  betting  on 
the  race.  You  earn  your  living  with  your  hands ; 
that  is  better  than  Cavalli's  way ;  he  earns  his 
with  his  tongue.  I  am  nearly  twice  your  age 
and  have  rowed  many  times,  but  I  have  never 
yet  wagered  as  much  as  a  soldo  on  any  race  of 
mine.  Give  your  money  to  the  good  mother, 
and  let  her  take  it  to  the  Pieta  and  get  your 
109 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANl 

boat.  You  will  need  it  before  the  month  is  out, 
she  tells  me." 

The  boy  hung  his  head  and  did  not  answer. 

**  Why  do  you  think  I  shall  lose  ?  Have  I  not 
won  four  already  ?  " 

**  Yes,  but  every  year  the  signore  gets  older ; 
you  are  not  so  strong  as  you  were.  And  then, 
no  man  has  won  five  races  in  fifty  years.  It  is 
the  Nicolletti's  year  to  win,  Cavalli  says." 

A  cheer  here  went  up  from  the  outside  of  the 
crowd.  Some  of  the  Nicolletti  who  had  followed 
the  boy  had  been  listening. 

"  Cavalli  should  read  his  history  better.  It  is 
not  fifty  years,  but  sixty.  But  we  Italians  work 
for  ourselves  now,  and  are  free.  That  counts  for 
something." 

' '  Francesco  works,  Signore  Zanaletto.  He  has 
arms  like  my  leg." 

"  Yes,  and  for  that  reason  you  think  him  the 
stronger  ? ' ' 

"I  did  when  Cavalli  talked  to  me.  Now  I  am 
in  doubt." 

The  cheer  that  answered  this  reply  came  from 
some  Castellani  standing  in  the  door  of  the  caff^. 
When  the  cheering  slackened  a  man  on  the  out- 
side of  the  crowd  called  out :  — 

"Your  Luigi  is  a  coward.    He  will  not  bet 
because  he  knows  he  Ml  lose." 
no 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

At  this  a  big  stevedore  from  the  salt  warehouse 
lunged  toward  Luigi  and  threw  a  silver  lira  on  his 
table. 

"  Match  that  for  Francesco  !  "  he  cried. 

Luigi  pushed  it  back. 

"  When  I  bet  it  will  be  with  my  equal,"  he 
said  icily. 

A  laugh  of  derision  followed,  in  which  Marco 
joined.  The  boy  evidently  thought  the  cham- 
pion was  afraid  to  risk  his  own  money  and 
make  his  word  good.  Boys  of  twenty  often 
have  such  standards. 

"Bet  with  Francesco,  then,  Signore  Zana- 
letto,"  cried  the  stevedore.  **  He  is  twice  your 
equal." 

"Yes,  bring  him  here,"  answered  Luigi, 
quietly. 

Half  a  dozen  men,  led  by  the  big  stevedore, 
made  a  rush  for  the  Caff^  Beneto.  While  they 
were  gone,  Marco,  with  Amalia  and  her  mother, 
kept  their  places  beside  Luigi's  table,  chatting 
together  in  low  tones.  Luigi's  refusal  to  bet 
with  the  stevedore  and  his  willingness  to  bet 
with  his  opponent  had  unsettled  Marco's  mind 
all  the  more.  Marriage,  with  him  as  with  most 
of  the  people  of  his  class,  meant  just  money 
enough  to  pay  the  priest  and  to  defray  expenses 
of  existence  for  a  month.  He  would  take  his 
III 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

chances  after  that.  They  might  both  go  to  work 
again  then,  she  back  to  her  beads  and  he  to  his 
boat,  but  they  would  have  had  their  holiday, 
and  a  holiday  is  the  one  thing  valued  above  all 
others  by  most  Venetians.  Should  he  lose, 
however,  he  must  give  up  the  girl  for  the  pre- 
sent —  the  prettiest  in  all  the  quarter.  And  then 
perhaps  Beppo  Cavalli's  son  might  find  favor 
again  in  her  eyes. 

Amalia's  anxiety  was  none  the  less  keen.  She 
had  thrown  over  Cavalli's  son  for  Marco,  and 
if  anything  should  go  wrong  the  whole  quarter 
would  laugh  at  her.  The  two  continued  to  ply 
Luigi  with  questions  :  as  to  who  would  win  the 
toss  for  position ;  whether  the  wind  would  be 
against  them ;  whether  the  water  would  be 
rough  where  the  tide  cut  around  the  point  of 
San  Giorgio  —  all  of  which  Marco,  being  a  good 
boatman,  could  have  settled  for  himself  had  his 
mind  been  normal.  As  they  talked  on,  Luigi 
read  their  minds.  Reason  and  common  sense 
had  evidently  made  no  impression  on  the  boy ; 
he  was  not  to  be  influenced  in  that  way.  Some- 
thing stronger  and  more  obvious,  some  demon- 
stration that  he  could  understand,  was  needed. 
Amalia's  mother  was  his  friend,  and  had  been 
for  years;  what  he  could  do  to  help  her  he 
would,  no  matter  at  what  cost. 

112 


THE   SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

The  throng  parted  again,  and  the  stevedore, 
out  of  breath,  forced  his  way  into  the  circle. 

"The  great  Francesco  says  he  comes  at  no 
man's  call.  He  is  a  Nicolletti.  If  any  Castellani 
wants  to  see  him  he  must  come  to  him.  He 
will  wait  for  you  at  the  Beneto." 

A  shout  went  up,  and  a  rush  to  avenge  the 
insult  was  only  stopped  by  Luigi  gaining  his 
feet  and  raising  his  hand. 

"Tell  him,"  he  said  in  a  clear  voice,  loud 
enough  for  everyone  to  hear,  "that  there  is 
no  need  of  his  saying  he  is  a  Nicolletti ;  we 
would  know  it  from  his  message.  Come,  boy, 
I  '11  show  you  of  wh^t  stuff  this  gentleman  is 
made." 

The  crowd  fell  back,  Luigi  striding  along,  his 
hand  on  Marco's  shoulder,  The  champion  could 
hardly  conceal  a  smile  of  triumph  as  he  neared 
the  door  of  the  Caff^  Beneto,  which  opened 
to  let  them  in.  The  two  passed  through  the 
long  passage  into  the  room  opening  out  on  the 
veranda  and  the  water  beyond.  Francesco  sat 
at  a  table  with  his  back  to  a  window,  sipping  a 
glass  of  wine  diluted  with  water.  Cavalli,  his 
head  bound  with  a  yellow  handkerchief,  the 
colors  of  the  Nicolletti,  a  scowl  on  his  face,  sat 
beside  him.  Every  inch  of  standing  room  was 
blocked  with  his  admirers. 
113 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

"  Signore  Francesco,"  said  Luigi,  courteously, 
removing  his  hat,  "  I  understand  that  you  want 
to  lose  some  money  on  the  race.  I  have  come 
to  accommodate  you.   How  much  shall  it  be  ?  " 

*'  Ten  lire  !  "  cried  one  of  the  officers  of  the 
regatta,  pouring  some  silver  beside  Francesco's 
hand  as  it  rested  on  the  table.  *  *  Put  your  money 
here,  Signore  Zanaletto.  Our  good  landlord  will 
hold  the  stakes." 

"  The  money  is  not  enough,"  answered  Luigi. 
**  I  am  the  challenged  party,  and  have  the  right 
to  choose.   Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  half  a  dozen  voices; 
"  make  it  fifty  lire  !  We  are  not  laiagnoni. 
We  have  money  —  plenty  of  it.  See,  Signore 
Castellani "  —  and  half  a  dozen  palms  covered 
with  small  coin  were  extended. 

**  I  can  choose,  then,  the  kind  of  money  and 
the  sum,"  continued  Luigi. 

"Yes,  gold,  silver,  paper  —  anything  you 
want !  " 

"Then,  gentle  Nicolletti,"  said  Luigi,  in  his 
softest  and  most  courteous  voice,  "  if  you  will 
permit  me,  I  will  choose  the  poor  man's  money. 
Match  this,  Signore  Francesco,"  and  he  threw 
a  copper  soldo  (a  coin  the  size  and  thickness  of 
an  English  penny)  upon  the  table.  *'  It  is  yours 
if  you  win." 

114 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  the  announcement. 
Francesco  sprang  to  his  feet. 

•*  I  am  not  here  to  be  made  a  fool  of !  I  don't 
bet  with  soldi !  I  throw  them  to  beggars !  "  he 
cried  angrily. 

**  Pardon  me,  signore.  Was  it  not  agreed 
that  I  had  the  choice?  " 

Some  muttering  was  heard  at  this,  but  no  one 
answered. 

**  Let  us  see  your  soldo,  then,  signore,"  con- 
tinued Luigi.  "  The  race  is  the  thing,  not  the 
money.  A  soldo  is  as  good  as  a  gold  piece  with 
which  to  back  one's  opinions.  Come,  I  am 
waiting." 

Francesco  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket, 
hauled  up  a  handful  of  small  coin,  picked  out  a 
soldo  and  threw  it  contemptuously  on  the  table. 

"There  — will  that  do.?" 

Luigi  picked  up  the  copper  coin,  examined  it 
carefully,  and  tossed  it  back  on  the  table. 

"It  is  not  of  the  right  kind,  signore.  The 
stamp  is  wrong.  We  Castellani  are  very  par- 
ticular as  to  what  money  we  wager  and  win." 

The  crowd  craned  their  heads.  If  it  was  a 
counterfeit,  they  would  put  up  another.  This, 
however,  did  not  seem  to  be  Luigi's  meaning. 
The  boy  Marco  was  so  absorbed  in  the  outcome 
that  he  reached  forward  to  pick  up  the  coin  to 

"5 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

examine  it  the  closer  when  Luigi  stopped  him 
with  his  hand. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  soldo?" 
growled  Francesco,  scrutinizing  the  pieces; 
"is  n't  it  good?" 

"Good  enough,  perhaps,  for  beggars,  sig- 
nore,  and  good  enough,  no  doubt,  for  Nicolletti. 
But  it  lacks  the  stamp  of  the  Castellani.  Hand 
it  to  me,  please,  and  I  will  put  the  mark  of  my 
guild  upon  it.   Look,  good  Signore  Francesco !  " 

As  he  spoke,  Luigi  caught  the  coin  between 
his  thumb  and  forefinger,  clutched  it  with  a 
grip  of  steel,  and  with  a  twist  of  his  thumb 
bent  the  copper  soldo  to  the  shape  of  a  watch 
crystal ! 

"That  kind  of  a  soldo,  signore,"  he  said  in 
a  low  tone,  as  he  tossed  the  concave  coin  back 
upon  the  table.  "Match  it,  please!  Here, 
try  your  fingers  on  my  coin !  Come,  I  am 
waiting.  You  do  not  answer,  Signore  Fran- 
cesco. Why  did  you  send  for  me,  then  ?  Had 
I  known  that  your  money  was  not  ready  I 
would  not  have  left  my  caffe.  Perhaps,  how- 
ever, some  other  distinguished  Nicolletti  can 
find  some  money  good  enough  with  which  to 
bet  a  Castellani,"  and  he  looked  about  him. 
"  No  ?  I  am  sorry,  gentlemen,  very  sorry. 
Addio ! "  and  he  picked  up  the  bent  coin, 
ii6 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  bowed  like  a  doge  to 
the  room,  and  passed  out  through  the  door. 

In  the  dense  mass  that  lined  the  wall  of  the 
Public  Gardens  a  girl  and  her  lover  stood  with 
anxious  eyes  and  flushed,  hot  cheeks,  watching 
the  home-stretch  of  the  two  contestants. 

Francesco  and  Luigi,  cheered  by  the  shouts 
of  a  thousand  throats,  had  reached  the  stake- 
boat  off  the  Lido  and  were  now  swinging  back 
to  the  goal  of  the  Garden  wall,  both  bending 
to  their  blades,  Luigi  half  a  length  behind, 
Francesco  straining  every  nerve.  Waves  of 
red  and  of  gold  —  the  colors  of  the  two  guilds 
—  surged  and  flashed  from  out  the  mass  of 
spectators  as  each  oarsman  would  gain  or  lose 
an  inch. 

Behind  the  lover  and  the  girl  stood  the  girl's 
mother,  her  black  shawl  twisted  into  a  scarf. 
This  she  waved  as  heartily  as  the  youngest 
about  her. 

"Don't  cry,  you  fools!"  she  stopped  long 
enough  to  shout  in  Amalia's  ear.  "It  is  his 
old  way.  Wait  till  he  reaches  the  red  buoy. 
Ah  !  what  did  I  tell  you  !  Luigi !  Luigi !  Bravo 
Castellani !  See,  Marco  —  see!  Ah,  Signore 
Francesco,  your  wind  is  gone,  is  it  ?  You 
should  nurse  bambinos  with  those  big  arms  of 
117 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

yours.    Ah,  look  at  him !  Amalia,  what  did  I 
tell  you,  you  two  fools  !  " 

Marco  did  not  answer.  He  was  holding  on 
to  the  marble  coping  of  the  wall,  his  teeth  set, 
his  lips  quivering,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Francesco's 
body  in  silhouette  against  the  glistening  sea. 
Luigi's  long  swing,  rhythmical  as  a  machine's, 
graceful  as  the  curves  of  a  wind  sail,  did  not 
seem  to  interest  him.  The  boy  had  made  his 
bet,  and  he  would  abide  by  it,  but  he  would 
not  tell  the  mother  until  the  race  was  won.  He 
had  had  enough  of  her  tongue. 

Suddenly  Luigi  clenched  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger tight  about  the  handle  of  his  oar,  and 
with  the  sweep  of  a  yacht  gaining  her  goal 
headed  straight  for  the  stake-post,  in  full  sight 
of  the  thousands  lining  the  walls. 

A  great  shout  went  up.  Red  flags,  red  parasols, 
rags,  blankets,  anything  that  told  of  Luigi's 
colors,  rose  and  fluttered  in  the  sunlight. 

"Primol  Primo!"  yelled  the  crowd.  "  Viva 
Castellani !  Viva  Zanaletto  !  " 

Then,  while  the  whole  concourse  of  people 
held  their  breaths,  their  hearts  in  their  mouths, 
Luigi,  with  his  fingers  turned  to  steel,  shot  past 
Francesco  with  the  dash  of  a  gull,  and  amid  the 
shouts  of  thousands  lifted  his  victorious  hat  to 
the  multitude. 

ii8 


RIO  GIUSEPPE. 


THE  SOLDO  OF  THE  CASTELLANI 

For  the  first  time  in  sixty  years  the  same  pair 
of  arms  had  won  five  races  ! 

Luigi  was  Primo  and  the  Castellani  the  vic- 
tors of  the  sea. 

When  Luigi's  boat  had  reached  the  main 
landing  of  the  Gardens  and  he  had  mounted  the 
great  flight  of  marble  steps,  a  hundred  hands 
held  out  to  him  joyous  welcome.  Amalia,  who 
had  forced  her  way  to  his  side,  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck. 

**  Did  the  boy  bet,  child  ?"  he  asked,  wiping 
the  sweat  from  his  face. 

"Yes,  signore." 

"On  Francesco? " 

"No,  dear  Luigi,  on  you!  Oh,  I  am  so 
happy  I " 

"  And  what  changed  his  mind  ?" 

"The  soldo!" 

"The  soldo!  That  makes  me  happy,  too. 
Add  it  to  your  dowry,  child,"  and  he  placed 
the  coin  in  her  hand. 

She  wears  it  now  as  a  charm.  The  good  priest 
blessed  it  with  her  wedding-ring. 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

I 

THE  omnibus  stopped  in  the  garden,  or,  to 
be  more  exact,  at  the  porch  of  the  hotel 
opening  into  the  garden.  Not  the  ordinary  omni- 
bus, with  a  flapping  door  fastened  with  a  strap 
leading  to  the  boot-leg  of  the  man  on  top,  a 
post-ofifice  box  inside  with  a  glass  front,  holding 
a  smoky  kerosene  lamp,  and  two  long  pew- 
cushioned  seats  placed  so  close  together  that 
everybody  rubs  everybody  else's  knees  when 
it  is  full ;  not  that  kind  of  an  omnibus  at  all, 
but  a  wide,  low,  yellow-painted  (yellow  as  a 
canary),  morocco-cushioned,  go-to-the-theatre- 
in  kind  of  an  omnibus,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  stout 
Normandy  horses,  with  two  men  in  livery  on 
the  box  in  front  and  another  on  the  lower  step 
behind  who  helps  you  in  and  out  and  takes 
your  bundles  and  does  any  number  of  delight- 
ful and  courteous  things. 

This  yellow-painted  chariot,  moreover,  was 
just  the  kind  of  a  vehicle  that  should  have 
moved  in  and  out  of  this  flower-decked  garden. 
Not  only  did  its  color  harmonize  with  the  sur- 

120 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

foundings  —  quite  as  a  mass  of  yellow  nastur- 
tiums harmonizes  with  the  peculiar  soft  green 
of  its  leaves — but  its  appointments  were  quite 
in  keeping  with  the  luxury  and  distinction  of 
the  place.  For  only  millionaires  and  princes, 
and  people  who  travel  with  valets  and  maids, 
and  now  and  then  a  staid  old  painter  like  my- 
self who  is  willing  to  be  tucked  away  any- 
where, but  whose  calling  is  supposed  to  lend 
eclat  to  the  register,  are  ever  to  be  found  there. 

The  omnibus,  then,  stopped  at  the  hotel 
porch  and  in  front  of  the  manager,  who  stood 
with  a  bunch  of  telegrams  in  his  hand.  Behind 
him  smiled  the  clerk,  and  on  his  right  bowed  the 
Lord  High  Porter  in  gold  lace  and  buttons : 
everything  is  done  in  the  best  and  most  approved 
style  at  the  Baur  au  Lac  in  Zurich. 

"Did  you  telegraph,  sir?  No?  Well  —  let 

—  me  —  see  —  Ah,  yes  !  I  remember  —  you 
were  here  last  year.  Number  13,  Fritz,  on  the 
second  floor"  (this  to  a  boy),  and  the  mana- 
ger passed  on  and  saluted  the  other  passengers 

—  two  duchesses  in  silk  dusters,  a  count  in  a 
straw  hat  with  a  green  ribbon,  and  two  Italian 
noblemen  in  low  collars  and  mustaches.  At 
least,  they  must  have  been  noblemen  or  some- 
thing better,  judging  from  the  profundity  of  the 
manager's  bow  and  the  alacrity  with  which 

121 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

Fritz,  the  boy,  let  go  my  bag  and  picked  up 
three  of  theirs. 

Another  personage  now  stepped  up  —  a  little 
man  with  the  eyes  of  a  fox  — a  courier  whom  I 
had  not  seen  for  years. 

"  Why,  Joseph  !  where  did  you  drop  from  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  From  the  Engadine,  my  Lord,  and  I  hope 
your  Lordship  is  most  well." 

**  Pretty  well,  Joseph.  What  are  you  doing 
here .?  " 

**  It  is  an  Englishman  —  a  lame  Englishman 
—  a  matter  of  two  weeks  only.  And  you,  my 
Lord  ?  " 

"Just  from  Venice,  on  my  way  back  to 
Paris,"  I  answered. 

By  this  time  the  manager  was  gazing  with  his 
eyes  twice  their  size,  and  the  small  boy  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  a  heap  of  bags,  won- 
dering which  one  of  the  nobilities  (including 
myself)  he  would  serve  first. 

Joseph  had  now  divested  me  of  my  umbrella 
and  sketch-trap  and  was  facing  the  manager. 

"  Did  1  hear  that  thirteen  was  the  number 
of  his  Lordship's  room  }  "  he  inquired  of  that 
gentleman.  "I  will  myself  go.  Give  me  the 
bag"  (this  to  the  boy).  "This  way,  my 
Lord."   And  he  led  the  way  through  the  cool 

122 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

hall  filled  with  flowering  plants  and  up  a  stair- 
case panelled  with  mirrors.  I  followed  content- 
edly behind. 

Joseph  and  I  are  old  acquaintances.  In  my 
journeyings  around  Europe  I  frequently  run 
across  him.  He  and  I  have  had  some  varied 
experiences  together  in  our  time  —  the  first  in 
Milan  at  the  Hotel  Imperial.  A  young  bride  and 
groom,  friends  of  mine,  —  a  blue-eyed,  sweet- 
faced  young  girl  with  a  husband  but  one  year 
her  senior  (the  two  with  a  ;£2000  letter  of 
credit,  the  gift  of  a  doting  father), — had  wired 
for  rooms  for  the  night  at  the  Imperial.  It  was 
about  eight  o'clock  when  the  couple  drove  up 
in  one  of  those  Italian  hacks  cut  low-neck  — a 
landau  really  —  with  coachman  and  footman  on 
the  box,  and  Joseph  in  green  gloves  and  a  silk 
hat  on  the  front  seat.  My  personal  salutations 
over,  we  all  mounted  the  stairs,  preceded  by  the 
entire  staff  with  the  proprietor  at  their  head. 
Here  on  the  first  landing  we  were  met  by  two 
flunkeys  in  red  and  a  blaze  of  electric  light 
which  revealed  five  rooms.  In  one  was  spread  a 
game  supper  with  every  variety  of  salad  known 
to  an  Italian  lunch-counter ;  in  another  —  the 
salon  —  stood  a  mass  of  roses  the  size  and  shape 
of  an  oleander  in  full  bloom  ;  then  came  a  huge 
bedroom,  a  bathroom,  and  a  boudoir. 
123 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

The  groom,  young  as  he  was,  knew  how  little 
was  left  of  the  letter  of  credit.  The  bride  did 
not.   Neither  did  Joseph. 

"What's  all  this  for,  Hornblend  ?  "  asked 
the  groom,  casting  his  eyes  about  in  astonish- 
ment. Hornblend  is  the  other  half  of  Joseph's 
name. 

"  For  Monsieur  and  Madame." 

**  What,  for  one  night  ?  " 

Joseph  worked  both  shoulders  and  extended 
his  red  fingers  —  he  had  removed  his  gloves  — 
till  they  looked  like  two  bunches  of  carrots. 

"Does  it  not  Monsieur  please  ?  " 

"  Please  !  Do  you  think  I'm  a  royal  family  ?  " 

The  carrots  collapsed,  the  shoulders  stopped, 
and  a  pained  expression  overspread  Joseph's 
countenance.  The  criticisms  had  touched  his 
heart. 

The  groom  and  I  put  our  heads  together  — 
mine  is  gray,  and  I  have  seen  many  couriers  in 
my  time ;  his  was  blond  and  curly,  and  Joseph 
was  his  first  experience. 

I  beckoned  to  the  proprietor. 

"Who  ordered  this  suite  of  rooms  and  all  this 
tomfoolery  ?  " 

The  man  bowed  and  waved  his  hand  loftily 
toward  the  groom. 

"How?" 

124 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

*' By  telegraph." 

**Let  me  see  the  despatch." 

One  of  the  functionaries — the  clerk  — 
handed  me  the  document. 

*•  Is  this  the  only  one  ?  " 

"Yes." 

**  It  is  signed  *  Joseph  Hornblend,'  you  see." 

"Yes." 

"Then  let  Hornblend  pay  for  it.  Now  be 
good  enough  to  show  these  young  people  to  a 
bedroom,  and  send  your  head  waiter  to  me.  We 
will  all  dine  downstairs  together  in  the  cafe." 

Since  that  night  in  Milan  Joseph  always  has 
called  me  "my  Lord." 

He  had  altered  but  little.  His  legs  were  per- 
haps more  bowed,  the  checks  of  his  trousers  a 
trifle  larger,  and  the  part  in  his  iron-gray  hair 
less  regular  than  in  the  old  days ;  but  the  general 
effect  was  the  same  —  the  same  flashy  waist- 
coat, the  same  long  gold  watch-chain  baited 
with  charms,  the  same  shiny,  bell-crown  silk 
hat,  and  the  same  shade  of  green  kid  gloves  — 
same  pair,  I  think.  Nor  had  his  manner  changed 
—  that  cringing,  deferential,  attentive  manner 
which  is  so  flattering  at  first  to  the  unsuspect- 
ing and  inexperienced,  and  so  positive  and  top- 
lofty when  his  final  accounts  are  submitted  — 
125 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

particularly  if  they  are  disputed.  The  voice, 
too,  had  lost  none  of  its  soft,  purring  quality  — 
a  church-whisper  voice  with  the  drone  of  the 
organ  in  it. 

And  yet  withal  Joseph  is  not  a  bad  fellow. 
Once  he  knows  the  size  of  your  pocketbook  he 
willingly  adapts  his  expenditures  to  its  contents. 
Ofttimes,  it  is  true,  there  is  nothing  left  but  the 
pocketbook,  but  then  some  couriers  would  take 
that.  When  he  is  in  doubt  as  to  the  amount, 
he  tries  experiments.  I  have  learned  since  that 
the  lay-out  for  the  bride  and  groom  that  night 
in  Milan  was  only  one  of  his  experiments  — 
the  proprietor  being  co-conspirator.  The  coach 
belonged  to  the  hotel;  the  game  supper  was 
moved  up  from  the  restaurant,  and  the  flowers 
had  been  left  over  from  a  dinner  the  night 
before.  Had  they  all  done  duty,  Joseph's  com- 
missions would  have  been  that  much  larger. 
As  it  was,  he  collected  his  percentage  only  on 
the  coach  and  the  two  men  on  the  box  and  the 
flunkeys  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  These  had 
been  used.  The  other  preparations  were  only 
looked  at. 

Then  again,  Joseph  not  only  speaks  seven 
languages,  but  he  speaks  them  well  —  for  Jo- 
seph —  so  much  so  that  a  stranger  is  never  sure 
of  his  nationality. 

126 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

"Are  you  French,  Joseph ?"  I  once  asked 
him. 

*'No." 

"Dutch?" 

"No." 

"What,  then?" 

"  I  am  a  Jew  gentleman  from  Germany." 

He  lied,  of  course.  He 's  a  Levantine  from 
Constantinople,  with  Greek,  Armenian,  Hindu, 
and  perhaps  some  Turkish  blood  in  his  veins. 
This  combination  insures  him  good  temper,  ca- 
pacity, and  imagination  —  not  a  bad  mixture 
for  a  courier.  Besides,  he  is  reasonably  honest 
—  not  punctiliously  so  —  not  as  to  francs,  per- 
haps, but  certainly  as  to  fifty-pound  notes  — 
that  is,  he  was  while  he  served  me.  Of  course, 
I  never  had  a  fifty-pound  note  —  not  all  at  once ; 
but  if  I  had  had  I  don't  think  he  would  have 
absorbed  it  —  not  if  I  had  signed  it  on  the  back 
for  identification  and  had  kept  it  in  a  money- 
belt  around  my  waist  and  close  to  my  skin. 

Those  things,  however,  never  trouble  me.  I 
don't  want  to  make  a  savings-bank  of  Joseph. 
It  is  his  vivid  imagination  that  appeals  to  me, 
or  perhaps  the  picturesqueness  with  which  he 
puts  things.  In  this  he  is  a  veritable  master. 
His  material,  too,  is  not  only  uncommonly  rich, 
but  practically  inexhaustible.  He  knows  every- 
127 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

body;  has  travelled  with  everybody;  has  al- 
ways kept  one  ear  and  one  eye  open  even 
when  asleep,  and  has  thus  picked  up  an  im- 
mense amount  of  information  regarding  people 
and  events  —  mostly  his  own  patrons  —  the 
telling  of  which  has  served  to  enliven  many  a 
quiet  hour  while  he  sat  beside  me  as  I  painted. 
Why,  once  I  remember  in  Stamboul,  when  some 
Arabs  had  — 

But  I  forget  that  1  am  following  Joseph  up- 
stairs, and  that  his  mission  is  to  see  that  I  am 
comfortably  lodged  at  the  Baur  au  Lac  in  Zurich. 

When  we  reached  the  second  floor  Joseph 
met  the  porter  emerging  into  the  corridor  with 
my  large  luggage.  He  had  mounted  the  back 
stairs. 

"Let  me  see  Number  13,  porter,"  cried  Jo- 
seph. "Ah,  yes  —  it  is  just  as  1  supposed.  Is 
it  in  that  hole  you  would  put  my  Lord  —  where 
there  is  noise  all  the  time  ?  You  see  that  win- 
dow, my  Lord  ?  "  (By  this  time  I  had  reached 
the  two  disputants  and  had  entered  the  room.) 
"You  remember,  your  Highness,  that  enormous 
omnibus  in  which  you  have  arrived  just  ?  It  is 
there  that  it  sleeps."  And  Joseph  craned  his 
head  out  of  the  window  and  pointed  in  the 
direction  of  the  courtyard.  "When  it  goes  out 
in  the  morning  at  seven  o'clock  for  the  train  it 
128 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

is  like  thunder.  The  Count  Monflot  had  this 
room.  You  should  have  seen  him  when  he  was 
awoke  at  seven.  He  was  like  a  crazy  man.  He 
pulled  all  the  strings  out  of  the  bells,  and  when 
the  waiter  come  he  had  the  hat-box  of  Monsieur 
the  Count  at  his  head." 

Dismissing  the  apartment  with  a  contempt- 
uous wave  of  his  hand,  Joseph,  with  the  porter's 
assistance,  who  had  a  pass-key,  began  a  search 
of  the  other  vacant  rooms  :  half  the  hotel  was 
vacant,  I  afterward  learned ;  all  this  telegram 
and  book  business  was  merely  an  attempt  to 
bolster  up  the  declining  days  of  a  bad  season. 

"  Number  21  ?  No  —  it  is  a  little  better,  but 
it 's  too  near  the  behind  stairs.  It  would  be  ab- 
surd to  put  his  Lordship  there.  Number  24  ?" 
—  here  he  looked  into  another  room.  "No, 
you  can  hear  the  grande  baggage  in  the  night 
going  up  and  down.   No,  it  will  not  do." 

The  manager,  having  disposed  of  the  other 
members  of  the  Emperor's  household,  now  ap- 
proached with  a  servile  smile  fitted  to  all  parts 
of  his  face.   Joseph  attacked  him  at  once. 

"  Is  his  Lordship  a  valet.  Monsieur,  that  you 
should  put  him  in  such  holes  ?  Do  you  not 
know  that  he  never  wakes  until  ten,  and  has 
his  coffee  at  eleven,  and  the  omnibus,  you 
know,  sleeps  there  ?  "  And  he  pointed  outside. 
129 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

(Another  Levantine  lie:  I  am  up  at  seven  when 
the  light  is  right.) 

Here  the  porter  unlocked  another  room  and 
stood  by  smiling.  He  knew  the  game  was  up 
now,  and  had  reserved  this  one  for  the  last. 

"  Number  —  28  !  Ah,  this  is  something  like. 
Yes,  my  Lord,  this  will  be  quite  right.  La 
Contessa  Moriarti  had  this  room  —  yes,  I  re- 
member." (Joseph  never  serves  any  woman 
below  the  rank  of  contessa.) 

So  I  moved  into  Number  28,  handed  Joseph 
the  keys,  and  the  porter  deposited  my  luggage 
and  withdrew,  followed  by  the  manager.  Soon 
the  large  and  small  trunks  were  disembowelled, 
my  sponge  hung  on  a  nail  in  the  window,  and 
the  several  toilet  articles  distributed  in  their 
proper  places,  Joseph  serving  in  the  triple  ca- 
pacity of  courier,  valet,  and  chambermaid  — 
the  lame  Englishman  being  out  driving,  and 
Joseph,  therefore,  having  this  hour  to  himself. 
This  distribution,  of  course,  was  made  in  de- 
ference to  my  exalted  rank  and  the  ten-franc 
gold  piece  which  he  never  fails  to  get  despite 
my  resolutions,  and  which  he  always  seems  to 
have  earned  despite  my  knowledge  as  to  how 
the  trick  is  performed. 

Suddenly  a  crash  sounded  through  the  hall 
as  if  somebody  had  dropped  a  tray  of  dishes. 
130 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

Then  came  another,  and  another.  Either  every 
waiter  in  the  house  was  dropping  trays,  or  an 
attack  was  being  made  on  the  pantry  by  a  mob. 

Joseph,  with  a  bound,  threw  back  the  door 
and  we  rushed  out. 

Just  opposite  my  room  was  a  small  salon 
with  the  door  wide  open.  In  its  centre  stood  a 
man  with  an  iron  poker  in  his  hand.  He  was 
busy  smashing  what  was  left  of  a  large  mirror, 
its  pieces  littering  the  floor.  On  the  sofa  lay 
another  man  twice  the  size  of  the  first  one,  who 
was  roaring  with  laughter.  Down  the  corridor 
swooped  a  collection  of  guests,  porters,  and 
chambermaids  in  full  cry,  the  manager  at  their 
head. 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty  francs,  eh  — for  a 
looking-glass  worth  twenty  francs?"  I  heard 
the  man  with  the  poker  shout.  "  I  blister  with 
my  gas  jet  one  little  corner,  and  I  must  pay 
two  hundred  and  fifty  francs.  I  have  ruined  the 
mirror,  have  I,  eh  ?  And  it  must  be  thrown 
out  and  a  new  one  put  in  to-morrow  —  eh  ? " 
Bang !  bang !  Here  the  poker  came  down  on 
some  small  fragment  still  clinging  to  the  frame. 
"  Yes,  it  will  come  out  [bang  !]  — all  of  it  will 
come  out." 

The  manager  was  now  trying  to  make  him- 
self  heard.    Such  words   as    "my    mirror," 

131 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

"outrage,"  "Gendarme,"  could  be  heard 
above  the  sound  of  the  breaking  glass  and  the 
shrieks  of  the  man  on  the  sofa,  who  seemed  to 
be  in  a  paroxysm  of  laughter. 

I  looked  on  for  a  moment.  Some  infuriated 
lodger,  angry,  perhaps,  at  the  overcharge  in 
his  bill,  was  venting  his  wrath  on  the  furniture. 
It  was  not  my  mirror,  and  it  was  not  my  bill ; 
the  manager  was  present  with  staff  enough  to 
throw  both  men  downstairs  if  he  pleased  and 
without  my  assistance,  and  so  I  turned  and  re- 
entered my  room.  Two  things  fixed  themselves 
in  my  mind  :  the  alert  figure,  trim  as  a  fencer's, 
of  the  man  with  the  poker,  and  the  laugh  of 
the  fat  man  sprawling  on  the  lounge. 

Joseph  followed  me  into  my  room  and  shut 
the  door  softly  behind  him. 

"  Ah,  I  knew  it  was  he.  No  other  man  is  so 
crazy  like  that.  He  would  break  the  head  of 
the  proprietaire  just  the  same.  That  is  an  old 
swindle.  That  mirror  has  been  cracked  four  — 
five  —  six  times.  The  gas  jet  is  fixed  so  that  you 
must  crack  it.  All  the  mirrors  like  the  one  he 
burnt  —  it  was  only  a  little  spot  —  go  upstairs 
in  the  cheap  rooms  and  new  ones  are  brought 
in  for  such  games.  'Most  always  they  pay, 
but  monsieur  —  it  is  not  like  him  to  pay.  He 
has  heard  of  the  trick,  perhaps  —  is  it  not  de- 
132 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

licious  ? "  and  Joseph's  face  widened  into  a 
grin. 

"  You  know  him,  then  ?  "  1  broke  in. 

**  Know  him  ?  — oh,  for  many  years.  He  is 
the  great  Doctor  Barsac.  He  smashes  every- 
thing he  does  n't  like.  He  smashed  that  old 
fat  monsieur  who  made  so  much  laugh.  His 
name  is  Mariguy.  He  looks  like  a  cure,  does 
he  not  ?  But  he  is  not  a  cure  ;  he  is  an  advo- 
cate. Barsac  is  from  Basle,  but  Mariguy  lives 
in  Paris.  Those  two  are  never -separated ;  they 
love  each  other  like  a  man  and  a  wife.  There 
is  a  great  medical  convention  here  in  Zurich, 
and  Barsac  has  brought  Mariguy  with  him  to 
show  him  off.  He  put  a  new  silver  stomach  in 
Mariguy  last  winter  and  is  very  proud  of  it. 
It  is  the  great  operation  of  the  year,  they  say." 

"  What  happened  to  the  fat  man,  Joseph  — 
was  it  an  accident  ?  " 

"No  —  a  duel.  Barsac  ran  him  through  the 
belly  with  his  sword." 

"Permit  me,  my  Lord" —  And  Joseph 
stepped  to  the  window.  "  Yes,  there  comes 
the  lame  Englishman  home  from  the  drive. 
Excuse  me  —  I  will  go  and  help  him  from  his 
carriage."  And  Joseph  bowed  himself  out 
backward. 


133 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 


II 


Joseph's  departure  left  my  mind  in  an  un- 
settled state.  I  had  n't  the  slightest  interest 
in  the  great  surgeon  who  had  made  the  cure 
of  the  year,  nor  in  the  stout  advocate  with 
his  nickel-plated  digestive  apparatus.  Both  of 
them  might  have  broken  every  mirror  in  the 
hotel  and  have  thrown  the  fragments  out  of  the 
window,  and  the  manager  after  them,  without 
raising  my  pulse  a  beat.  Neither  did  the  med- 
ical convention  nor  the  doctor's  exhibit  cause 
me  a  moment's  thought.  Such  things  were 
commonplace  and  of  every-day  occurrence. 
Only  the  dramatic  in  life  appeals  to  so  staid 
and  gray  an  old  painter  as  myself,  and  even 
Joseph's  picturesque  imagination  could  not  im- 
bue either  one  of  the  incidents  of  the  morning 
with  that  desirable  quality. 

What  really  did  appeal  to  me  as  I  conjured 
up  in  my  mind  the  picture  of  the  fat  man 
sprawled  over  the  sofa-cushions  roaring  with 
laughter  was  the  duel  and  the  causes  that  led 
up  to  it.  Why,  if  the  man  was  his  friend,  had 
the  doctor  selected  the  hilarious  advocate  as  an 
antagonist,  and  what  could  have  induced  the 
surgeon  to  pick  out  that  particular  section  of 
his  friend's  surface  in  which  to  insert  his  sword. 

134 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

That  same  night,  in  the  smoking-room  of  the 
hotel,  Joseph  caught  sight  of  me  as  he  passed 
the  open  door  and  moved  forward  to  my  table. 
He  had  changed  his  dress  of  the  morning,  dis- 
carding the  inflammatory  waistcoat,  and  was 
now  upholstered  in  a  full  suit  of  black.  He 
explained  that  there  were  some  friends  of  his 
living  in  the  village  who  were  going  to  have 
some  music.  The  Englishman  was  in  bed  and 
asleep,  and  now  that  he  was  sure  that  I  was 
comfortable,  he  could  give  himself  some  little 
freedom,  with  his  mind  at  rest. 

I  motioned  him  to  a  seat. 

He  laid  his  silk  hat  and  one  glove  on  an 
adjoining  table,  spread  his  coat-tails,  and  de- 
posited himself  on  the  extreme  edge  of  a  chair  — 
a  position  which  would  enable  him  to  regain 
his  feet  at  a  moment's  notice  should  any  of  my 
friends  chance  to  join  me.  It  is  just  such  deli- 
cate recognition  of  my  rank  and  lordly  belong- 
ings that  makes  Joseph's  companionship  oft- 
times  a  pleasure. 

"  You  tell  me,  Joseph,  that  that  crazy  doctor 
stabbed  the  fat  man  in  a  duel." 

**  Not  stabbed,  my  Lord  !  That  is  not  the  nice 
word.  It  was  done  so — so  —  so."  And  Joseph's 
wrist,  holding  an  imaginary  sword,  performed 
the  grand  thrust  in  the  air.   "He  is  a  master 

135 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

with  the  rapier.  When  he  was  at  the  Sorbonne 
he  had  five  duels  and  never  once  a  scratch.  His 
honor  was  most  paramount.  He  would  fight 
with  anybody,  and  for  the  smallest  thing  —  if 
one  man  had  a  longer  cane,  or  wore  a  higher 
hat,  or  took  cognac  in  his  coffee.  Not  for  the 
grisette  or  for  the  cards  in  the  face ;  not  so  big 
a  thing  as  that ;  quite  a  small  thing  that  no- 
body would  remember  a  moment.  And  with  his 
friends  always  —  never  with  the  man  he  did 
not  before  know." 

**  And  was  the  fat  man  his  friend  }  " 

**  His  friend  !  Mon  Dieu  !  they  were  like  the 
brothers.  One  —  two  —  five  year,  I  think  — 
all  the  whole  time  of  the  instruction.  I  was  not 
there,  of  course,  but  a  friend  of  mine  tell  me  — 
a  most  truthful  man,  my  friend." 

"What  was  the  row  about .'  Cognac  in  his 
coffee  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  —  perhaps  somethings.  Yes, 
I  do  remember  now.  It  was  the  cutting  of  the 
hair.  Barsac  like  it  short  and  Mariguy  like  it 
long.  Barsac  tried  to  cut  the  hair  from  Mari- 
guy's  head  when  he  was  asleep,  and  then  it 
began.  It  was  in  that  little  wood  at  the  bridge 
at  Sur^sne  that  they  went  to  fight.  You  know 
you  turn  to  the  right  and  there  is  a  little  place 
—  all  small  trees  —  there  it  was. 
136 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

**  When  they  all  got  ready,  there  quickly  ar- 
rive a  carriage  all  dust,  and  the  horse  in  a  sweat, 
and  out  jumps  an  old  lady  —  it  was  Mariguy's 
mother.  Somebody  had  told  her  —  not  Mari- 
guy,  of  course,  but  some  student.  *  Stop ! '  she 
cried ;  '  you  do  not  my  son  kill.  You,  Barsac, 
you  do  nothing  but  fight !  *  Then  they  all  talk, 
and  Mariguy  say  to  Barsac,  '  It  cannot  be ;  my 
mother,  as  you  see,  is  old.  There  is  no  one  but 
me.  If  I  am  wounded,  she  will  be  in  the  bed 
with  fright.  If  I  am  killed,  she  will  be  dead.  It 
is  my  mother,  you  see,  that  you  fight,  not  me.' 

"Barsac  take  off  his  hat  and  bow  to  ma- 
dame."  (Joseph  had  now  reached  for  his  own 
and  was  illustrating  the  incident  with  an  appro- 
priate gesture.)  "  '  Madame  Mariguy,'  said  Bar- 
sac, *  I  make  ten  thousand  pardons.  I  respect 
the  devotion  of  the  mother,'  and  he  went  back 
to  Paris,  and  Mariguy  get  into  the  carriage  and 
go  away  with  the  mother." 

"  But,  Joseph,  of  course  that  was  not  the 
last  of  it?" 

"Yes,  my  Lord,  until  one  year  ago." 

"  Why,  did  they  have  another  quarrel,  Jo- 
seph?" 

"  No,  not  another  —  never  butthat  one.  They 
were  for  a  long  time  what  you  call  friends  of 
the  bosom.  Every  day  after  that  they  see  each 

137 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

other,  and  every  night  they  dine  at  the  Louis 
d'Or  below  the  Luxembourg.  Then  pretty  soon 
the  doctor,  he  have  take  his  degree  and  come 
back  to  Basle  to  live,  and  Monsieur  Mariguy  also 
have  take  his  degree  and  become  a  great  advo- 
cate in  Paris.  Every  week  come  a  letter  from 
Barsac  to  Mariguy,  and  one  from  Mariguy  to 
Barsac." 

Joseph  stopped  in  his  narrative  at  this  point, 
noticing  perhaps  some  shade  of  incredulity  across 
my  countenance,  and  said  parenthetically:  "I 
am  quite  surprised,  my  Lord,  that  you  have  not 
this  heard  before.  It  was  quite  the  talk  of  Paris 
at  the  time.  No  ?  Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you 
everything  as  it  did  happen,  for  1  do  assure  you 
that  it  is  most  exciting. 

"  All  this  time  —  it  was  quite  ten  years,  per- 
haps fifteen  —  not  one  word  does  Monsieur  Bar- 
sac  say  to  Monsieur  Mariguy  about  the  insult 
of  the  long  hair.  All  the  time,  too,  they  are 
together.  For  the  summer  they  go  to  a  little 
village  in  the  Swiss  mountains,  and  for  the  win- 
ter they  go  to  Nice,  and  'most  every  night  they 
play  a  little  at  the  tables.  It  was  there  I  met 
them. 

"  One  morning  at  Basle  the  doctor  was  at  his 
table  eating  the  breakfast  when  the  newspaper 
is  put  on  the  side.    He  read  a  little  and  sip  his 

138 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

coffee,  and  then  he  read  a  little  more  —  all  this, 
my  Lord,  was  in  the  papers  at  the  time  —  I  am 
quite  astonished  that  you  have  not  seen  it  — 
and  then  the  doctor  make  a  loud  cry,  and  throw 
the  paper  down,  run  upstairs,  pack  his  bag, 
jump  into  a  fiacre  and  go  like  mad  to  the  sta- 
tion. The  next  morning  he  is  in  Paris,  and  at 
the  house  of  his  friend  Mariguy.  In  three  days 
they  are  at  Sur^sne  again  —  not  in  the  little 
wood,  but  in  the  garden  of  Monsieur  Rochefort, 
who  was  his  second.  It  was  against  the  law  to 
go  into  the  little  wood  to  fight,  so  they  took 
the  nearest  place  to  their  old  meeting — a  small 
sentiment,  you  see,  my  Lord,  which  Monsieur 
the  Doctor  always  enjoys. 

"They  toss  up  for  the  sun,  and  Monsieur 
Barsac  he  gets  the  shade.  At  the  first  pass,  no 
one  is  hurt.  At  the  second.  Monsieur  Barsac  has 
a  little  scratch  on  his  wrist,  but  no  blood.  The 
seconds  make  inspection  most  careful.  They 
regret  that  the  encounter  must  go  on,  but  the 
honor  is  not  yet  satisfied.  At  the  third.  Mon- 
sieur Mariguy  made  a  misstep,  and  Monsieur 
Barsac's  sword  go  into  Monsieur  Mariguy's  shirt 
and  come  out  at  Monsieur  Mariguy's  back. 

"You  can  imagine  what  then  take  place. 
Doctor  Barsac  cry  in  a  loud  voice  that  his  honor 
is  satisfied,  and  the  next  moment  he  is  on  his 
139 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

knees  beside  his  friend.  Monsieur  Mariguy  is  at 
once  put  in  the  bed,  and  for  one  —  two — three 
months  he  is  dead  one  day  and  breathe  a  little 
the  next.  Barsac  never  leave  the  house  of  his 
friend  Monsieur  Rochefort  one  moment — not  one 
day  does  he  go  back  to  Basle.  Every  night  he 
is  by  the  bed  of  Monsieur  Mariguy.  Then  comes 
the  critical  moment.  Monsieur  Mariguy  must 
have  a  new  stomach  ;  the  old  one  is  like  a  stock- 
ing with  a  hole  in  the  toe.  Then  comes  the 
great  triumph  of  Monsieur  le  Docteur.  All  Paris 
come  out  to  see.  To  make  a  stomach  of  silver 
is  to  make  one  the  fool,  they  say.  The  old  doc- 
tors shake  their  heads,  but  Barsac  he  only  laugh. 
In  one  more  month  Monsieur  Mariguy  is  on  his 
feet,  and  every  day  walks  a  little  in  the  Bois  near 
the  house  of  Monsieur  Rochefort.  In  one  more 
month  he  run,  and  eat  himself  full  like  a  boy. 

"  He  is  now  no  longer  the  great  advocate.  He 
is  the  example  of  Monsieur  Barsac.  That  is  why 
he  is  here  at  the  medical  convention.  They  ar- 
rived only  yesterday  and  leave  to-night.  If  you 
turn  a  little,  my  Lord,  you  can  see  into  the 
other  room.  There  they  sit  smoking.  —  Ah  !  do 
you  hear  }  That  is  Monsieur  Mariguy's  laugh. 
Oh,  they  enjoy  themselves  !  They  have  drank 
two  bottles  of  Johannisberger  already  —  twenty- 
five  francs  each,  if  you  please,  my  Lord.  The 
140 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

head  waiter  showed  me  the  bottles.  But  what 
does  Barsac  care  ?  He  cut  everything  out  of 
the  insides  of  the  Prince  Morin  one  day  last 
month,  and  had  for  a  fee  fifty  thousand  francs 
and  the  order  of  St.  John." 

I  bent  my  head  in  the  direction  of  Joseph's 
index  finger  and  easily  recognized  the  two  men 
at  the  table.  The  smaller  man,  Barsac,  was 
even  more  trim  and  alert-looking  than  when  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him  in  the  bedroom.  As  he 
sat  and  talked  to  Mariguy  he  looked  more  like 
an  officer  in  the  French  army  than  a  doctor. 
His  hair  was  short,  his  mustache  pointed,  and 
his  beard  closely  trimmed.  He  had  two  square 
shoulders  and  a  slim  waist,  and  talked  with  his 
hands  as  if  they  were  part  of  his  mental  equip- 
ment. The  other  man,  Mariguy , the  "example," 
was  just  a  fat,  jolly,  good-natured  Frenchman, 
who  to  all  appearance  loved  a  bottle  of  wine 
better  than  he  did  a  brief. 

Joseph  was  about  to  begin  again  when  I 
stopped  him  with  this  inquiry :  — 

"There  is  one  thing  in  your  story,  Joseph, 
that  I  don't  quite  get :  you  say  they  were  stu- 
dents together }  " 

"Yes,  my  Lord." 

"That   the  first  duel  —  the  one  that  the 
mother  stopped  —  was  fifteen  years  ago  ?  " 
141 


A  POINT  OF  HONOR 

*'  Quite  true,  my  Lord." 

"  And  that  this  last  duel  was  fought  a  year 
ago,  and  that  all  that  time  they  were  together 
whenever  they  could  be,  and  devoted  friends  ?  " 

"  Every  word  true,  my  Lord." 

"Well,  then,  why  did  n't  they  fight  before  ? " 

Joseph  looked  at  me  with  a  curious  expres- 
sion on  his  face — one  rather  of  disappointment, 
as  if  I  had  utterly  failed  to  grasp  his  meaning. 

**  Fight  before  !  It  would  have  been  impos- 
sible, my  Lord.  Barsac's  honor  was  at  the 
stake." 

"And  he  must  wait  fifteen  years,"  I  asked 
with  some  impatience,  "  to  vindicate  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  Lord — or  twice  that  time  if 
it  was  necessary.  It  was  only  when  he  read  in 
the  paper  at  the  table  of  his  breakfast  that 
morning  in  Basle  that  he  knew." 

"  What  difference  did  that  make  ?  " 

"  Every  difference,  my  Lord ;  Madame 
Mariguy,  the  mother,  was  only  the  day  before 
dead." 


SIMPLE   FOLK 

A  LONG  reach  of  coast  country,  white  and 
smooth,  broken  by  undulating  fences 
smothered  in  snowdrifts,  only  their  stakes  and 
bush-tops  showing ;  farther  away,  horizontal 
markings  of  black  pines  ;  still  farther  away,  a 
line  of  ragged  dunes  bearded  with  yellow  grass 
bordering  a  beach  flecked  with  scurries  of  foam 
—  mouthings  of  a  surf  twisting  as  if  in  pain ; 
beyond  this  a  wide  sea,  greenish  gray,  gray  and 
gray-blue,  slashed  here  and  there  with  white- 
caps  pricked  by  wind  rapiers ;  beyond  this 
again,  out  into  space,  a  leaden  sky  flat  as  paint 
and  as  monotonous. 

Nearer  by,  so  close  that  I  could  see  their 
movements  from  the  car  window,  spatterings  of 
crows,  and  higher  up  circling  specks  of  gulls 
glinting  or  darkening  as  their  breasts  or  backs 
caught  the  light.  These  crows  and  gulls  were 
the  only  things  alive  in  the  wintry  waste. 

No,  one  thing  more —  two,  in  fact :  as  I  came 
nearer  the  depot,  a  horse  tethered  to  the  sec- 
tion of  the  undulating  fence,  a  rough-coated, 
wind-blown,  shackly  beast ;  the  kind  the  great 

143 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

Schreyer  always  painted  shivering  with  cold  out- 
side a  stable  door  (and  in  the  snow,  too),  and  a 
man.  Please  remember,  A  MAN !  And  please 
continue  to  remember  it  to  the  end  of  this  story. 

Thirty-one  years  in  the  service  he —  this 
keeper  of  the  Naukashon  Life-Saving  Station  — 
twenty-five  at  this  same  post.  Six  feet  and  an 
inch,  tough  as  a  sapling  and  as  straight ;  long- 
armed,  long-legged,  broad-shouldered,  and  big- 
boned  ;  face  brown  and  tanned  as  skirt  leather ; 
eye  like  a  hawk's ;  mouth  but  a  healed  scar, 
so  firm  is  it ;  low-voiced,  simple-minded,  and 
genuine. 

If  you  ask  him  what  he  has  done  in  all  these 
thirty-one  years  of  service  he  will  tell  you :  — 

**  Oh,  I  kind  o'  forget ;  the  Superintendent 
gets  reports.  You  see,  some  months  we  're  not 
busy,  and  then  ag'in  we  ain't  had  no  wrecks 
for  considerable  time." 

If  you  should  happen  to  look  in  his  locker, 
away  back  out  of  sight,  you  would  perhaps  find 
a  small  paper  box,  and  in  it  a  gold  medal  —  the 
highest  his  government  can  give  him  —  in- 
scribed with  his  name  and  a  record  of  some  par- 
ticular act  of  heroism.  When  he  is  confronted 
with  the  telltale  evidence,  he  will  say  :  — 

**  Oh,  yes  —  they  did  give  me  that !    I  'm 
keepin*  it  for  my  grandson." 
144 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

If  you,  failing  to  corkscrew  any  of  the  details 
out  of  him,  should  examine  the  Department's 
reports,  you  will  find  out  all  he  "forgets"  — 
among  them  the  fact  that  in  his  thirty-one  years 
of  service  he  and  the  crew  under  him  have  saved 
the  lives  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-one  men  and 
women  out  of  a  possible  one  hundred  and  thirty- 
two.  He  explains  the  loss  of  this  unlucky  man 
by  saying  apologetically  that  "the  fellow  got 
dizzy  somehow  and  locked  himself  in  the  cabin, 
and  we  did  n't  know  he  was  there  until  she 
broke  up  and  he  got  washed  ashore." 

This  was  the  man  who,  when  I  arrived  at  the 
railroad  station,  held  out  a  hand  in  hearty  wel- 
come, his  own  closing  over  mine  with  the  grip 
of  a  cant-hook. 

"  Well,  by  Jiminy  !  Superintendent  said  you 
was  comin',  but  I  kind  o'  thought  you  would  n't 
'til  the  weather  cleared.  Gimme  yer  bag — 
Yes,  the  boys  are  all  well  and  will  be  glad  to 
see  ye.  Colder  than  blue  blazes,  ain't  it  ?  Snow 
ain't  over  yet.  Well,  well,  kind  o'  natural  to 
see  ye ! " 

The  bag  was  passed  up ;  the  Captain  caught 
the  reins  in  his  crab-like  fingers,  and  the  bunch 
of  wind-blown  fur,  gathering  its  stiffened  legs 
together,  wheeled  sharply  to  the  left  and  started 
in  to  make  pencil  markings  in  double  lines  over 

145 


SIMPLE    FOLK 

the  white  snow  seaward  toward  the  Naukashon 
Life-Saving  Station. 

The  perspective  shortened  :  first  the  smooth, 
unbroken  stretch ;  then  the  belt  of  pines ;  then 
a  flat  marsh  diked  by  dunes ;  then  a  cluster  of 
black  dots,  big  and  little  —  the  big  one  being 
the  Station  house,  and  the  smaller  ones  its  out- 
buildings and  fishermen's  shanties ;  and  then 
the  hard,  straight  line  of  the  pitiless  sea. 

I  knew  the  "boys."  I  had  known  some 
of  them  for  years :  ever  since  I  picked  up  one 
of  their  stations,  —  its  site  endangered  by  the 
scour  of  the  tide,  —  ran  it  on  skids  a  mile  over 
the  sand  to  the  land  side  of  the  inlet  without 
moving  the  crew  or  their  comforts  (even  their 
wet  socks  were  left  drying  on  a  string  by  the 
kitchen  stove),  shoved  it  aboard  two  scows 
timbered  together,  started  out  to  sea  under  the 
guidance  of  a  light-draught  tug  in  search  of  its 
new  location  three  miles  away,  and  then,  with 
the  assistance  of  a  suddenly  developed  north- 
east gale,  backed  up  by  my  own  colossal  engi- 
neering skill,  dropped  the  whole  concern — skids, 
house,  kitchen  stove,  socks  and  all  —  into  the 
sea.  When  the  surf  dogs  were  through  with  its 
carcass  the  beach  was  strewn  with  its  bones 
picked  clean  by  their  teeth.  Only  the  weather- 
cock, which  had  decorated  its  cupola,  was  left. 
146 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

This  had  floated  off  and  was  found  perched  on 
top  of  a  sand-dune,  whizzing  away  on  its  or- 
namental cap  as  merry  as  a  jig-dancer.  It  was 
still  whirling  away,  this  time  on  the  top  of  the 
cupola  at  Naukashon.  I  could  see  it  plainly  as  I 
drove  up,  its  arrow  due  east,  looking  for  trouble 
as  usual. 

Hence  my  friendship  for  Captain  Shortrode 
and  his  trusty  surf  men.  Hence,  too,  my  wel- 
come when  I  pushed  in  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room  and  caught  the  smell  of  the  cooking : 
Dave  Austin's  clam  chowder  —  I  could  pick  it 
out  anywhere,  even  among  the  perfumes  of  a 
Stamboul  kitchen ;  and  hence,  too,  the  hearty 
hand-grasp  from  the  big,  brawny  men  around  the 
stove. 

**  Well !  Kind  o*  summer  weather  you  picked 
out !  Here,  take  this  chair  —  Gimme  yer  coat. 
—  Git  them  legs  o'  yourn  in,  Johnny.  He 's  a 
new  man  —  John  Partridge  ;  guess  you  ain't 
met  him  afore.  Where  's  Captain  Shortrode 
gone.?  Oh,  yes!  —  puttin'  up  old  Moth-eaten. 
Ain't  nothin'  he  thinks  as  much  of  as  that  old 
horse.  Oughter  pack  her  in  camphor.  Well, 
how 's  things  in  New  York  .?  —  Nelse,  put  on 
another  shovel  of  coal  —  Yes,  colder  'n  Christ- 
mas !  .  .  .  Nothin'  but  nor'east  wind  since 
the    moon    changed.  .  .  .    Chowder !  —  Yes, 

147 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

yer  dead  right ;  Dave 's  cookin'  this  week,  and 
he  said  this  mornin'  he  'd  have  a  mess  for  ye." 

A  stamping  of  feet  outside  and  two  bifurcated 
walruses  (four  hours  out  on  patrol)  pushed  in 
the  door.  Muffled  in  oilskins  these,  rubber- 
booted  to  their  hips,  the  snow-line  marking 
their  waists  where  they  had  plunged  through 
the  drifts ;  their  sou'-westers  tied  under  their 
chins,  shading  beards  white  with  frost  and  faces 
raw  with  the  slash  of  the  beach  wind. 

More  hand-shakes  now ;  and  a  stripping  of 
wet  outer-alls ;  a  wash-up  and  a  hair-smooth  ; 
a  shout  of  "Dinner!"  from  the  capacious 
lungs  of  David  the  cook ;  a  silent,  reverential 
grace  with  every  head  bowed  (these  are  the 
things  that  surprise  you  until  you  know  these 
men),  and  with  one  accord  an  attack  is  made 
upon  Dave's  chowder  and  his  corn-bread  and 
his  fried  ham  and  his  —  Well,  the  air  was  keen 
and  bracing,  and  the  salt  of  the  sea  a  permeat- 
ing tonic,  and  the  smell !  —  Ah,  David  !  I  wish 
you  'd  give  up  your  job  and  live  with  me,  and 
bring  your  saucepan  and  your  griddle  and  your 
broiler  and  —  my  appetite  ! 

The  next  night  the  Captain  was  seated  at 
the  table  working  over  his  monthly  report,  the 
kerosene  lamp  lighting  up  his  bronzed  face  and 
148 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

falling  upon  his  open  book.  There  is  nothing 
a  keeper  hates  to  do  so  much  as  making  out 
monthly  reports ;  his  hard,  horny  hand  is  shaped 
to  grasp  an  oar,  not  a  pen.  Four  other  men 
were  asleep  upstairs  in  their  bunks,  waiting 
their  turns  to  be  called  for  patrol.  Two  were 
breasting  a  northeast  gale  howling  along  the 
coast,  their  Coston  signals  tightly  buttoned 
under  their  oilskins. 

Tom  Van  Brunt  and  1  —  Tom  knew  all  about 
the  little  kitchen  stove  and  the  socks  —  he  had 
forgiven  me  my  share  in  their  loss  —  were  tilted 
back  against  the  wall  in  our  chairs.  The  slop 
and  rattle  of  Dave's  dishes  came  in  through 
the  open  door  leading  to  the  kitchen.  Outside 
could  be  heard  the  roar  and  hammer  of  the 
surf  and  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  wind  trying 
to  burglarize  the  house  by  way  of  the  eaves 
and  the  shutters. 

The  talk  had  drifted  to  the  daily  life  at  the 
Station ;  the  dreariness  of  waiting  for  something 
to  come  ashore  (in  a  disappointed  tone  from 
Tom,  as  if  he  and  his  fellow  surfmen  had  not 
had  their  share  of  wrecks  this  winter)  ;  of  the 
luck  of  Number  i6,  in  charge  of  Captain  Elleck 
and  his  crew,  who  had  got  seven  men  and  a 
woman  out  of  an  English  bark  last  week  without 
wetting  the  soles  of  their  feet. 
149 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

"  Fust  shot  went  for'd  of  her  chain  plates," 
Tom  explained,  "and  then  they  made  fast  and 
come  off  in  the  breeches-buoy.  Warn't  an  hour 
after  she  struck  'fore  they  had  the  hull  of  'em 
up  to  the  Station  and  supper  ready.  Heavy  sea 
runnin'  too." 

Tom  then  shifted  his  pipe  and  careened  his 
head  my  way,  and  with  a  tone  in  his  voice  that 
left  a  ring  behind  it  which  vibrated  in  me  for 
days,  and  does  now,  said :  — 

"  I  've  been  here  for  a  good  many  years,  and 
I  guess  I  '11  stay  here  long  as  the  Guv'ment  '11 
let  me.  Some  people  think  we  've  got  a  soft 
snap,  and  some  people  think  we  ain't.  'T  is  kind 
o'  lonely,  sometimes  —  then  somethin'  comes 
along  and  we  even  up ;  but  it  ain't  that  that 
hurts  me  really  —  it 's  bein'  so  much  away  from 
home." 

Tom  paused,  rapped  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  on 
his  heel  to  clear  it,  twisted  his  body  so  that  he 
could  lay  the  precious  comfort  on  the  window- 
sill  behind  him  safe  out  of  harm's  way,  and 
continued :  — 

"Yes,  bein'  so  much  away  from  home.  I  've 
been  a  surf  man,  you  know,  goin'  on  thirteen 
years,  and  out  o'  that  time  I  ain't  been  home 
but  two  year  and  a  half  runnin'  the  days  solid, 
which  they  ain't.  I  live  up  in  Naukashon  vil- 
150 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

lage,  and  you  know  how  close  that  is.  Cap'n 
could  'a'  showed  you  my  house  as  you  druv 
'long  through  —  it's  just  across  the  way  from 
hisn." 

I  looked  at  Tom  in  surprise.  I  knew  that  the 
men  did  not  go  home  but  once  in  two  weeks, 
and  then  only  for  a  day,  but  I  had  not  summed 
up  the  vacation  as  a  whole.  Tom  shifted  his 
tilted  leg,  settled  himself  firmer  in  his  chair,  and 
went  on :  — 

"  I  ain't  askin'  no  favors,  and  I  don't  expect 
to  git  none.  We  got  to  watch  things  down 
here,  and  we  dasn't  be  away  when  the  weather 's 
rough,  and  there  ain't  no  other  kind  'long  this 
coast;  but  now  and  then  somethin'  hits  ye  and 
hurts  ye,  and  ye  don't  forgit  it.  I  got  a  little 
baby  at  home  —  seven  weeks  old  now — hearty 
little  feller  —  goin'  to  call  him  after  the  Cap'n," 
and  he  nodded  toward  the  man  scratching  away 
with  his  pen.  "  I  ain't  had  a  look  at  that  baby 
but  three  times  since  he  was  born,  and  last 
Sunday  it  come  my  turn  and  I  went  up  to  see 
the  wife  and  him.  My  brother  Bill  lives  with 
me.  He  lost  his  wife  two  year  ago,  and  the 
baby  she  left  didn't  live  more  'n  a  week  after 
she  died,  and  so  Bill,  not  havin'  no  children  of 
his  own,  takes  to  mine  —  I  got  three." 

Again  Tom  stopped,  this  time  for  a  percep- 
151 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

tible  moment.  I  noticed  a  little  quiver  in  his 
voice  now. 

"Well,  when  I  got  home  it  was  'bout  one 
o'clock  in  the  day.  I  been  on  patrol  that  morn- 
in'  — it  was  snowin'  and  thick.  Wife  had  the 
baby  up  to  the  winder  waitin'  for  me,  and  they 
all  come  out  —  Bill  and  my  wife  and  my  little 
Susie,  she 's  five  year  old — and  then  we  all  went 
in  and  sat  down,  and  I  took  the  baby  in  my 
arms,  and  it  looked  at  me  kind  o'  skeered-like 
and  cried ;  and  Bill  held  out  his  hands  and  took 
the  baby,  and  he  stopped  cryin'  and  laid  kind 
o'  contented  in  his  arms,  and  my  little  Susie 
said,  '  Pop,  I  guess  baby  thinks  Uncle  Bill 's  his 
father.'  .  .  .  / — tell — you  —  that — hurt!'* 

As  the  last  words  dropped  from  Tom's  lips 
two  of  the  surf  men  —  Jerry  Potter  and  Robert 
Saul,  who  had  been  breasting  the  northeast 
gale  —  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  sitting-room 
and  peered  in,  looking  like  two  of  Nansen's  men 
just  off  an  ice-floe.  Their  legs  were  clear  of 
snow  this  time,  the  two  having  brushed  each 
other  off  with  a  broom  on  the  porch  outside. 
Jerry  had  been  exchanging  brass  checks  with 
the  patrol  of  No.  14,  three  miles  down  the 
beach,  and  Saul  had  been  setting  his  clock  by  a 
key,  locked  in  an  iron  box  bolted  to  a  post  two 
miles  and  a  half  away  and  within  sight  of  the 
152 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

inlet.  Tramping  the  beach  beside  a  roaring  surf 
in  a  northeast  gale  blowing  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
and  in  the  teeth  of  a  snow-storm  each  flake 
cutting  like  grit  from  a  whirling  grindstone,  was 
to  these  men  what  the  round  of  a  city  park  is 
to  a  summer  policeman. 

Jerry  peeled  off  his  waterproofs  from  head, 
body,  and  legs;  raked  a  pair  of  felt  slippers 
from  under  a  chair ;  stuck  his  stocking-feet  into 
their  comforting  depths ;  tore  a  sliver  of  paper 
from  the  end  of  a  worn-out  journal,  twisted  it 
into  a  wisp,  worked  the  door  of  the  cast-iron 
stove  loose  with  his  marlin-spike  of  a  finger, 
held  the  wisp  to  the  blaze,  lighted  his  pipe  care- 
fully and  methodically ;  tilted  a  chair  back,  and 
settling  his  great  frame  comfortably  between  its 
arms,  started  in  to  smoke.  Saul  duplicated  his 
movements  to  the  minutest  detail,  with  the  sin- 
gle omission  of  those  connected  with  the  pipe. 
Saul  did  not  smoke. 

Up  to  this  time  not  a  word  had  been  spoken 
by  anybody  since  the  two  men  entered.  Men 
who  live  together  so  closely  dispense  with 
"Howd'yes"  and  "Good-bys."  I  was  not 
enough  of  a  stranger  to  have  the  rule  modified 
on  my  account  after  the  first  salutations. 

Captain  Shortrode  looked  up  from  his  report 
and  broke  the  silence. 

153 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

"  That  sluiceway  cuttin'  in  any,  Jerry  ?" 

Jerry  nodded  his  head  and  replied  between 
puffs  of  smoke :  — 

"  'Bout  fifty  feet,  I  guess." 

The  grizzled  Captain  took  off  his  eye-glasses, 
—  he  only  used  them  in  making  up  his  report, — 
laid  them  carefully  beside  his  sheet  of  paper, 
stretched  his  long  legs,  lifting  his  body  to  the 
perpendicular,  dragged  a  chair  to  my  side  of 
the  room,  and  said  with  a  dry  chuckle  :  — 

"  I  've  got  to  laugh  every  time  I  think  of 
that  sluiceway.  Last  month  —  Warn't  it  last 
month,  Jerry  ?"  Jerry  nodded,  and  sent  a  curl 
of  smoke  through  his  ragged  mustache,  accom- 
panied by  the  remark,  "  Yes  —  last  month." 

The  Captain  continued :  — 

"Last  month,  I  say,  we  were  havin'  some 
almighty  high  tides,  and  when  they  git  to 
cuttin'  round  that  sluiceway  it  makes  it  bad 
for  our  beach-cart,  'specially  when  we  've  got 
to  keep  abreast  of  a  wreck  that  ain't  grounded 
so  we  can  git  a  line  to  her ;  so  I  went  down 
after  supper  to  see  how  the  sluiceway  was 
comin'  on.  It  was  foggy,  and  a  heavy  sea  run- 
nin' — the  surf  showin'  white,  but  everythin' 
else  black  as  pitch.  Fust  thing  I  knew  I  beared 
somethin'  like  the  rattle  of  an  oar-lock,  or  a 
tally-block,  and  then  a  cheer  come  just  outside 

154 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

the  breakers.  I  run  down  to  the  swash  and 
listened,  and  then  I  seen  her  comin'  bow  on, 
big  as  a  house ;  four  men  in  her  holdin'  on  to 
the  gunnels,  hollerin'  for  all  they  was  worth.  I 
got  to  her  just  as  the  surf  struck  her  and  rolled 
her  over  bottom-side  up." 

"  Were  you  alone  ?  "  I  interrupted. 

"  Had  to  be.  The  men  were  up  and  down 
the  beach  and  the  others  was  asleep  in  their 
bunks.  Well,  when  I  had  'em  all  together  I 
run  'em  up  on  the  beach  and  in  here  to  the 
Station,  and  when  the  light  showed  'em  up  — 
Well,  I  tell  ye,  one  of  'em  —  a  nigger  cook  — 
was  a  sight!  'Bout  seven  feet  high,  and  thick 
round  as  a  flag-pole,  and  blacker  'n  that  stove, 
and  skeered  so  his  teeth  was  a-chatterin'. 
They'd  left  their  oyster  schooner  a-poundin' 
out  on  the  bar  and  had  tried  to  come  ashore  in 
their  boat.  Well,  we  got  to  work  on  'em  and 
got  some  dry  clo'es  on  'em,  and  "  — 

"  Were  you  wet,  too  ?  "  I  again  interrupted. 

**  Wet !  Soppin* !  I  'd  been  under  the  boat 
feelin'  'round  for  'em.  Well,  the  King's  Daugh- 
ters had  sent  some  clo'es  down,  and  we  looked 
over  what  we  had,  and  I  got  a  pair  of  high-up 
pants,  and  Jerry,  who  wears  Number  12  — 
Don't  you,  Jerry  ?"  (Jerry  nodded  and  puffed 
on) —  "  had  an  old  pair  of  shoes,  and  we  found 

155 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

a  jacket,  another  high-up  thing  big  'nough  to 
fit  a  boy,  that  come  up  to  his  shoulder-blades, 
and  he  put  'em  on  and  then  he  set  'round  here 
for  a  spell  dryin'  out,  with  his  long  black  legs 
stickin'  from  out  of  his  pants  like  handle-bars, 
and  his  hands,  big  as  hams,  pokin'  out  o'  the 
sleeves  o'  his  jacket.  We  got  laughin'  so  we 
had  to  go  out  by  ourselves  in  the  kitchen  and 
have  it  out ;  did  n't  want  to  hurt  his  feelin's, 
you  know." 

The  Captain  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  laughed 
quietly  to  himself  at  the  picture  brought  back 
to  his  mind,  and  continued,  the  men  listening 
quietly,  the  smoke  of  their  pipes  drifting  over 
the  room. 

"  Next  mornin'  we  got  the  four  of  'em  all 
ready  to  start  off  to  the  depot  on  their  way  back 
to  Philadelphy  —  there  warn't  no  use  o'  their 
stayin',  their  schooner  was  all  up  and  down 
the  beach,  and  there  was  oysters  'nough  'long 
the  shore  to  last  everybody  a  month.  Well, 
when  the  feller  got  his  rig  on  he  looked  himself 
all  over,  and  then  he  said  he  would  like  to  have 
a  hat.  'Bout  a  week  before  Tom  here  [Tom 
nodded  now,  and  smiled]  had  picked  up  on  the 
beach  one  o'  these  high  gray  stovepipe  hats 
with  a  black  band  on  it,  blowed  overboard  from 
some  o'  them  yachts,  maybe.  Tom  had  it  up 
156 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

on  the  mantel  there  dry  in',  and  he  said  he 
did  n't  care,  and  I  give  it  to  the  nigger  and  off 
he  started,  and  we  all  went  out  on  the  back 
porch  to  see  him  move.  Well,  sir,  when  he 
went  up  'long  the  dunes  out  here  toward  the 
village,  steppin'  like  a  crane  in  them  high-up 
pants  and  jacket  and  them  Number  12's  of 
Jerry's  and  that  hat  of  Tom's  'bout  three  sizes 
too  small  for  him,  I  tell  ye  he  was  a  show!" 

Jerry  and  Saul  chuckled,  and  Tom  broke  into 
a  laugh  —  the  first  smile  I  had  seen  on  Tom's 
face  since  he  had  finished  telling  me  about  the 
little  baby  at  home. 

I  laughed  too  —  outwardly  to  the  men  and 
inwardly  to  myself  with  a  peculiar  tightening 
of  the  throat,  followed  by  a  glow  that  radiated 
heat  as  it  widened.  My  mind  was  not  on  the 
grotesque  negro  cook  in  the  assorted  clothes. 
All  I  saw  was  a  man  fighting  the  surf,  groping 
around  in  the  blackness  of  the  night  for  four 
water-soaked,  terrified  men  until  he  got  them, 
as  he  said,  "  all  together."  That  part  of  it  had 
never  appealed  to  the  Captain,  and  never  will. 
Pulling  drowning  men,  single-handed,  from  a 
boiling  surf,  was  about  as  easy  as  pulling  gud- 
geons out  of  a  babbling  brook. 

Saul  now  piped  up  :  — 

**  Oughter  git  the  Cap'n  to  tell  ye  how  he 

157 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

got  that  lady  ashore  last  winter  from  off  that 
Jamaica  brig." 

At  the  sound  of  Saul's  voice  Captain  Short- 
rode  rose  quickly  from  his  chair,  picked  up  his 
report  and  spectacles,  and  with  a  deprecating 
wave  of  his  hand,  as  if  the  story  would  have 
to  come  from  some  other  lips  than  his  own,  left 
the  room  —  to  "get an  envelope,"  he  said. 

"  He  won't  come  back  for  a  spell,"  laughed 
Jerry.  "The  old  man  don't  like  that  yarn." 
"  Old  man  "  was  a  title  of  authority,  and  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  Captain's  fifty  years. 

I  made  no  comment — not  yet.  My  ears  were 
open,  of  course,  but  I  was  not  holding  the  tiller 
of  conversation  and  preferred  that  some  one  else 
should  steer. 

Again  Saul  piped  up,  this  time  to  me,  reading 
my  curiosity  in  my  eyes  :  — 

"Well,  there  warn't  nothin'  much  to  it, 
'cept  the  way  the  Cap'n  got  her  ashore,"  and 
again  Saul  chuckled  quietly,  this  time  as  if  to 
himself.  "The  beach  was  full  o'  shipyard  rats 
and  loafers,  and  when  they  beared  there  was  a 
lady  comin'  ashore  in  the  breeches-buoy,  more 
of  'em  kept  comin'  in  on  the  run.  We  'd  fired 
the  shot-line  and  had  the  anchor  buried  and  the 
hawser  fast  to  the  brig's  mast  and  the  buoy 
rigged,  and  we  were  just  goin*  to  haul  in  when 
158 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

Cap'n  looked  'round  on  the  crowd,  and  he  see 
right  away  what  they  'd  come  for  and  what 
they  was  'spectin'  to  see.  Then  he  ordered  the 
buoy  hauled  back  and  he  got  into  the  breeches 
himself,  and  we  soused  him  through  the  surf 
and  off  he  went  to  the  brig.  He  showed  her 
how  to  tuck  her  skirts  in,  and  how  to  squat 
down  in  the  breeches  'stead  o*  stickin*  her  feet 
through,  and  then  she  got  skeered  and  said  she 
could  n't  and  hollered,  and  so  he  got  in  with  her 
and  got  his  arms  'round  her  and  landed  her, 
both  of  'em  pretty  wet."  Saul  stopped  and 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  I  was  evidently 
expected  to  say  something. 

"Well,  that  was  just  like  the  Captain,"  I 
said  mildly,  **  but  where  does  the  joke  come 
in?" 

"Well,  there  warn't  no  joke,  really,"  re- 
marked Saul  with  a  wink  around  the  room, 
"  'cept  when  we  untangled  'em.  She  was  'bout 
seventy  years  old,  and  black  as  tar.  That 's 
all!" 

It  seemed  to  be  my  turn  now —  "the  laugh" 
being  on  me.  Captain  Shortrode  was  evidently 
of  the  same  opinion,  for,  on  reentering  the 
room,  he  threw  the  envelope  on  the  table,  and 
settling  himself  again  in  his  chair  looked  my 
way,  as  if  expecting  the  next  break  in  the  con- 

159 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

versation  to  be  made  by  me.  Two  surfmen, 
who  had  been  asleep  upstairs,  now  joined  the 
group,  the  laughter  over  Saul's  story  of  the 
"lady"  having  awakened  them  half  an  hour 
ahead  of  their  time.  They  came  in  rubbing 
their  eyes,  their  tarpaulins  and  hip-boots  over 
their  arms.  Jerry,  Tom,  and  Saul  still  remained 
tilted  back  in  their  chairs.  They  should  have 
been  in  bed  resting  for  their  next  patrol  (they 
went  out  again  at  four  A.  M.),  but  preferred  to 
sit  up  in  my  honor. 

Dozens  of  stories  flashed  into  my  mind  —  the 
kind  I  would  tell  at  a  club  dinner,  or  with  the 
coffee  and  cigarettes  —  and  were  as  instantly 
dropped.  Such  open-air,  breezy  giants,  full  of 
muscle  and  ozone,  would  find  no  interest  in  the 
adventures  of  any  of  my  characters ;  the  cheap 
wit  of  the  cafes,  the  homely  humor  of  the  farm, 
the  chatter  of  the  opera-box,  or  whisperings 
behind  the  palms  of  the  conservatory — nothing 
of  this  could  possibly  interest  these  men.  I 
would  have  been  ashamed  to  offer  it.  Tom's 
simple,  straightforward  story  of  his  baby  and 
his  brother  Bill  had  made  it  impossible  for  me 
to  attempt  to  match  it  with  any  cheap  pathos 
of  my  own ;  just  as  the  graphic  treatment  of 
the  fitting  out  of  the  negro  cook  by  the  Cap- 
tain, and  of  the  rescue  of  the  "  lady"  by  Saul, 
i6o 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

had  ended  all  hopes  of  my  entertaining  the  men 
around  me  with  any  worm-eaten,  hollow-shelled 
chestnuts  of  my  own.  What  was  wanted  was 
some  big,  simple,  genuine  yarn :  strong  meat  for 
strong  men,  not  milk  for  babes :  something  they 
would  know  all  about  and  believe  in  and  were 
part  of.  The  storming  of  a  fort ;  the  flagging 
of  a  train  within  three  feet  of  an  abyss ;  the 
rescue  of  a  child  along  a  burning  ledge  five 
stories  above  the  sidewalk :  all  these  themes 
bubbled  up  and  sank  again  in  my  mind.  Some 
of  them  I  only  knew  parts  of ;  some  had  but 
little  point ;  all  of  them  were  hazy  in  my  mind. 
I  remembered,  with  regret,  that  I  could  only 
repeat  the  first  verse  of  the  "  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade,"  and  but  two  lines  of  "  Hora- 
tius,"  correctly. 

Suddenly  a  great  light  broke  in  upon  me. 
What  they  wanted  was  something  about  their 
own  life  ;  some  account  of  the  deeds  of  other  life- 
savers  up  and  down  the  coast,  graphically  put 
with  proper  dramatic  effect,  beginning  slowly 
and  culminating  in  the  third  act  with  a  blaze 
of  heroism.  These  big,  brawny  heroes  about 
me  would  then  get  a  clearer  idea  of  the  estima- 
tion in  which  they  were  held  by  their  country- 
men ;  a  clearer  idea,  too,  of  true  heroism  —  of 
the  genuine  article,  examples  of  which  were 
i6i 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

almost  nightly  shown  in  their  own  lives.  This 
would  encourage  them  to  still  greater  efforts,  and 
the  world  thereby  be  the  better  for  my  telling. 

That  gallant  rescue  of  the  man  off  Quogue 
was  just  the  thing  ! 

The  papers  of  the  week  before  had  been  full 
of  the  bravery  of  these  brother  surfmen  on  the 
Long  Island  coast.  This,  and  some  additional 
information  given  me  by  a  reporter  who  visited 
the  scene  of  the  disaster  after  the  rescue,  could 
not  fail  to  make  an  impression,  I  thought.  Yes, 
the  rescue  was  the  very  thing. 

"Oh!  men,"  I  began,  "  did  you  hear  about 
that  four-master  that  came  ashore  off  Shinne- 
cock  last  week  ?  "  and  1  looked  around  into 
their  faces. 

"  No,"  remarked  Jerry,  pulling  his  pipe  from 
his  mouth.    "  What  about  it  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,  ye  did,"  grunted  Tom;  "Num- 
ber 17  got  two  of  'em." 

"  Yes,  and  the  others  were  drowned,"  in- 
terrupted Saul. 

"Thick,  warn't  it.?  "  suggested  one  of  the 
sleepy  surfmen,  thrusting  his  wharf-post  of  a 
leg  into  one  section  of  his  hip-boots  preparatory 
to  patrolling  the  beach. 

"Yes,"  I  continued,  "dense  fog;  couldn't 
see  five  feet  from  the  shore.  She  grounded 
162 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

about  a  mile  west  of  the  Station,  and  all  the 
men  had  to  locate  her  position  by  was  the  cries 
of  the  crew.  They  could  n't  use  the  boat,  the 
sea  was  running  so  heavy,  and  they  could  n't 
get  a  line  over  her  because  they  could  n't  see 
her.  They  stood  by,  however,  all  night,  and 
at  daylight  she  broke  in  two.  All  that  day  the 
men  of  two  stations  worked  to  get  off  to  them, 
and  every  time  they  were  beaten  back  by  the 
sea  and  wreckage.  Then  the  fog  cleared  a 
little,  and  two  of  the  crew  of  the  schooner  were 
seen  clinging  to  a  piece  of  timber  and  some 
floating  freight.  Shot  after  shot  was  fired  at 
them,  and  by  a  lucky  hit  one  fell  across  them, 
and  they  made  fast  and  were  hauled  toward 
the  shore." 

At  this  moment  the  surfman  who  had  been 
struggling  with  his  hip-boots  caught  my  eye, 
nodded,  and  silently  left  the  room,  fully 
equipped  for  his  patrol.   I  went  on  :  — 

"  When  the  wreckage,  with  the  two  men 
clinging  to  it,  got  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
surf,  the  inshore  floatage  struck  them,  and 
smash  they  went  into  the  thick  of  it.  One  of 
the  shipwrecked  men  grabbed  the  line  and 
tried  to  come  ashore,  the  other  poor  fellow  held 
to  the  wreckage.  Twice  the  sea  broke  his  hold, 
and  still  he  held  on." 

J63 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

The  Other  surfman  now,  without  even  a  nod, 
disappeared  into  the  night,  slamming  the  outer 
door  behind  him,  the  cold  air  finding  its  way 
into  our  warm  retreat.  I  ignored  the  slight  dis- 
courtesy and  proceeded  :  — 

"  Now,  boys,  comes  the  part  of  the  story  I 
think  will  interest  you."  As  I  said  this  I  swept 
my  glance  around  the  room.  Jerry  was  yawn- 
ing behind  his  hand  and  Tom  was  shaking  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"On  the  beach"  (my  voice  rose  now) 
"  stood  Bill  Halsey,  one  of  the  Quogue  crew. 
He  knew  that  the  sailor  in  his  weakened  con- 
dition could  not  hold  on  through  the  inshore 
wreckage;  and  sure  enough,  while  he  was 
looking,  a  roller  came  along  and  tore  the  man 
from  his  hold.  In  went  Bill  straight  at  the  comb- 
ers, fighting  his  way.  There  was  not  one  chance 
in  a  hundred  that  he  could  live  through  it,  but 
he  got  the  man  and  held  on,  and  the  crew  rushed 
in  and  hauled  them  clear  of  the  smother,  both  of 
them  half-dead.  Bill's  arms  still  locked  around 
the  sailor.  Bill  came  to  soonest,  and  the  first 
words  he  said  were,  '  Don't  mind  me,  I  'm  all 
right :  take  care  of  the  sailor ! '  " 

I  looked  around  again ;  Captain  Shortrode  was 
examining  the  stubs  of  his  horny  fingers  with  as 
much  care  as  if  they  would  require  amputation 
164 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

at  no  distant  day ;  Jerry  and  Saul  had  their  gaze 
on  the  floor.  Tom  was  still  tilted  back,  his  eyes 
tight  shut.   I  braced  up  and  continued  :  — 

"  All  this,  of  course,  men,  you  no  doubt  heard 
about,  but  what  the  reporter  told  me  may  be 
new  to  you.  That  night  the  '  Shipping  News  ' 
got  Bill  on  the  'phone  and  asked  him  if  he  was 
William  Halsey. 

*"Yes.' 

**  *  Are  you  the  man  who  pulled  the  sailor  out 
of  the  wreckage  this  morning  at  daybreak  ?  * 

"'Yes.' 

"  *  Well,  we  'd  like  you  to  write  some  little 
account  of '  — 

"  '  Well,  I  ain't  got  no  time.* 

**  *  If  we  send  a  reporter  down,  will  you  talk 
to  him  and  '  — 

**  *  No,  for  there  ain't  nothin'  to  tell '  — 

** '  You  're  Halsey,  are  n't  you  ? ' 

"'Yes.' 

"  'Well,  we  should  like  to  get  some  of  the 
details ;  it  was  a  very  heroic  rescue,  and  '  — 

"  '  Well,  there  ain't  no  details  and  there  ain't 
no  heroics.  I  git  paid  for  what  I  do,  and  I  done 
it,'  and  he  rang  off  the  'phone." 

A  dead  silence  followed  — one  of  those  uncom- 
fortable silences  that  often  follows  a  society  break 
precipitating  the  well-known  unpleasant  quarter 

165, 


SIMPLE  FOLK 

of  an  hour.  This  silence  lasted  only  a  minute. 
Then  Captain  Shortrode  remarked  calmly  and 
coldly,  and,  1  thought,  with  a  tired  feeling  in  his 
voice :  — 

"  Well,  what  else  could  he  have  said  ?  " 

The  fur-coated  beast  was  taken  out  of  cam- 
phor, hooked  up  to  the  buggy,  and  the  Captain 
and  I  ploughed  our  way  back  through  the  snow 
to  the  depot,  the  men  standing  in  the  doorway 
waving  their  hands  Good-by. 

The  next  day  I  wrote  this  to  the  Superin- 
tendent at  headquarters :  — 

**  These  men  fear  nothing  but  God  1  '* 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

IT  was  when  pulling  in  his  milk  one  morning 
that  Dalny  first  made  the  acquaintance  of 
"  Old  Sunshine."  The  cans  had  become  mixed, 
Dalny's  pint  having  been  laid  at  the  old  man's 
door  and  the  old  man's  gill  at  Dalny's,  and  the 
rectifying  of  the  mistake  —  "  Old  Sunshine  "  did 
the  rectifying — laid  the  basis  of  the  acquaintance. 
Everybody,  of  course,  in  the  Studio  Building 
knew  the  old  man  and  his  old  sister  by  sight, 
but  only  one  or  two  well  enough  to  speak  to 
him ;  none  of  them  to  speak  to  the  poor,  faded 
woman,  who  would  climb  the  stairs  so  many 
times  a  day,  always  stopping  for  her  breath  at 
the  landing,  and  always  with  some  little  pack- 
age—  a  pinch  of  tea,  or  a  loaf  of  bread,  or  frag- 
ment of  chop  —  which  she  hid  under  her  apron 
if  she  heard  any  one's  steps.  She  was  younger 
than  her  brother  by  a  few  years,  but  there  was 
no  mistaking  their  relationship;  their  noses 
were  exactly  alike  —  long,  semi-transparent 
noses,  protruding  between  two  wistful,  china- 
blue  eyes  peering  from  under  eyebrows  shaded 
by  soft  gray  hair. 

167 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

The  rooms  to  which  the  sister  climbed,  and 
where  the  brother  worked,  were  at  the  top  of 
the  building,  away  up  under  the  corridor  sky- 
light, the  iron  ladder  to  its  trap  being  bolted  to 
the  wall  outside  their  very  door.  It  was  sunnier 
up  there,  the  brother  said.  One  of  the  rooms 
he  used  for  his  studio,  sleeping  on  a  cot  behind 
a  screen ;  the  other  was  occupied  by  his  sister. 
What  little  housekeeping  was  necessary  went 
on  behind  this  door.  Outside,  on  its  upper 
panel,  was  tacked  a  card  bearing  his  name  :  — 

Adolphe  Woolfsen. 

When  he  had  moved  in,  some  years  before 
—  long  before  Dalny  arrived  in  the  building  — 
the  agent  had  copied  the  inscription  in  his 
book  from  this  very  card,  and  had  thereafter 
nailed  it  to  the  panel  to  identify  the  occupant. 
It  had  never  been  removed,  nor  had  any 
more  important  name-plate  been  placed  be- 
side it. 

Sometimes  the  janitor,  in  addressing  him, 
would  call  him  "  Mr.  Adolphe,"  and  sometimes 
"  Mr.  Woolfsen  ;  "  sometimes  he  would  so  far 
forget  himself  as  to  let  his  tongue  slip  halfway 
down  "Old  Sunshine,"  bringing  up  at  the 
"Sun  "  and  substituting  either  one  of  the  fore- 
going in  its  place. 

i68 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

The  agent  who  collected  his  rent  always 
addressed  him  correctly.  "If  it  was  agreeable 
to  Mr.  Woolfsen,  he  would  like  to  collect,"  etc. 
Sometimes  it  was  agreeable  to  Mr.  Woolfsen, 
and  sometimes  it  was  not.  When  it  was  agree- 
able—  this  the  janitor  said  occurred  only  when 
a  letter  came  with  a  foreign  postmark  on  it  — 
the  old  painter  would  politely  beg  the  agent  to 
excuse  him  for  a  moment,  and  shut  the  door 
carefully  in  the  agent's  face.  Then  would  follow 
a  hurried  moving  of  easels  and  the  shifting  of  a 
long  screen  across  his  picture.  Then  the  agent 
would  be  received  with  a  courteous  bow  and 
handed  to  a  chair  —  a  wreck  of  a  chair,  with 
the  legs  unsteady  and  the  back  wobbly,  while 
the  tenant  would  open  an  old  desk,  take  a  china 
pot  from  one  of  the  cubby-holes,  empty  it  of 
the  contents,  and  begin  to  count  out  the  money, 
smiling  graciously  all  the  time.  When  it  was 
not  agreeable  to  pay,  the  door  was  closed 
gently  and  silently  in  the  agent's  face,  and  no 
amount  of  pounding  opened  it  again  —  not  that 
day,  at  least. 

Only  Dalny  knew  what  was  behind  that 
screen,  and  only  Dalny  divined  the  old  man's 
reasons  for  concealing  his  canvas  so  carefully  ; 
but  this  was  not  until  after  weeks  of  friendly 
greeting,  including  certain  attentions  to  the  old 
169 


"  OLD  SUNSHINE  " 

sister,  such  as  helping  her  up  the  stairs  with  a 
basket  —  an  unusual  occurrence  for  her,  and,  of 
course,  for  him.  This  time  it  was  a  measure  of 
coal  and  a  bundle  of  wood  that  made  it  so 
heavy. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  had  said  in  her  sweet, 
gentle  voice,  her  pale  cheeks  and  sad  eyes 
turned  toward  him;  "my  brother  will  be  so 
pleased.  No,  I  can't  ask  you  in,  for  he  is  much 
absorbed  these  days,  and  I  must  not  disturb 
him." 

This  little  episode  occurred  only  a  few  days 
after  the  incident  of  the  interchange  of  the  por- 
tions of  milk,  and  was  but  another  step  to  a 
foregone  intimacy  —  so  far  as  Dalny  was  con- 
cerned. Not  that  he  was  curious,  or  lacked 
society  or  advice.  It  was  Dalny's  way  to  be 
gracious,  and  he  rarely  had  cause  to  repent  it. 
He  did  not  pretend  to  any  system  of  friendli- 
ness when  meeting  any  fellow  lodger  on  the 
stairs.  It  began  with  a  cheery  "Good-morn- 
ing," or  some  remark  about  the  weather,  or  a 
hope  that  the  water  did  n't  get  in  through  the 
skylight  and  spoil  any  of  his  sketches.  If  a 
pleasant  answer  came  in  response,  Dalny  kept 
on,  and  in  a  week  was  lending  brushes  or  tubes 
of  color  or  a  scuttle  of  coal,  never  borrowing 
anything  in  return;  if  only  a  gruff  "  Yes  "  or  a 
170 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

nod  of  the  head  came  in  reply,  he  passed  on 
down  or  up  the  stairs  whistling  as  usual  or 
humming  some  tune  to  himself.  This  was 
Dalny's  way. 

At  first  the  painter's  sobriquet  of  "  Old  Sun- 
shine "  puzzled  Dalny ;  he  saw  him  but  seldom, 
but  never  when  his  face  had  anything  sunny 
about  it.  It  was  always  careworn  and  earnest, 
an  eager,  hungry  look  in  his  eyes. 

Botts,  who  had  the  next  studio  to  Dalny, 
solved  the  mystery. 

"  He  's  crazy  over  a  color  scheme  ;  gone  daft 
on  purples  and  yellows.  1  haven't  seen  it  — 
nobody  has  except  his  old  sister.  He  keeps  it 
covered  up,  but  he  's  got  a  50  x  60  that  he  's 
worked  on  for  years.  Claims  to  have  discovered 
a  palette  that  will  make  a  man  use  smoked 
glass  when  his  picture  is  hung  on  the  line. 
That 's  why  he  's  called  '  Old  Sunshine.'  " 

Dalny  made  no  reply,  none  that  would  en- 
courage Botts  in  his  flippant  view  of  the  old 
painter.  He  himself  had  been  studying  that 
same  problem  all  his  life ;  furthermore,  he  had 
always  believed  that  sooner  or  later  some  ma- 
gician would  produce  three  tones  —  with  har- 
monies so  exact  that  a  canvas  would  radiate 
light  like  a  prism. 

The  next  day  he  kept  his  studio  door  open 
171 


<*OLD  SUNSHINE" 

and  his  ear  unbuttoned,  and  when  the  old  man's 
steps  approached  his  door  on  his  return  from  his 
morning  walk  —  the  only  hour  he  ever  went  out 
—  Dalny  threw  it  wide  and  stepped  in  front  of 
him. 

"  Don't  mind  coming  in,  do  you  ?  "  Dalny 
laughed.  "I  've  struck  a  snag  in  a  bit  of  dra- 
pery and  can't  get  anything  out  of  it.  I  thought 
you  might  help  "  —  And  before  the  old  fellow 
could  realize  where  he  was,  Dalny  had  him  in 
a  chair  before  his  canvas. 

"  I'm  not  a  figure  painter,"  the  old  man  said 
simply. 

"That  don't  make  any  difference.  Tell  me 
what 's  the  matter  with  that  shadow  —  it 's 
lumpy  and  flat,"  and  Dalny  pointed  to  a  fold  of 
velvet  lying  across  a  sofa,  on  which  was  seated 
the  portrait  of  a  stout  woman  —  one  of  Dalny's 
pot-boilers  —  the  wife  of  a  rich  brewer  who 
wanted  a  picture  at  a  poor  price  —  one  which 
afterward  made  Dalny's  reputation,  so  masterful 
was  the  brushwork.  The  old  Studio  Building 
was  full  of  just  such  customers,  but  not  of  such 
painters. 

"It's  of  the  old  school,"  said  the  painter. 
"  I  could  only  criticise  it  in  one  way,  and  that 
might  offend  you." 

"  Go  on  —  what  is  the  matter  with  it  ? " 
172 


**OLD  SUNSHINE" 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  chin  slowly  and 
looked  at  Dalny  under  his  bushy  eyebrows. 

"  I  am  afraid  to  speak.  You  have  been  very 
kind.  My  sister  says  you  are  always  polite, 
and  so  few  people  are  polite  nowadays." 

"  Say  what  you  please  ;  don't  worry  about 
me.   I  learn  something  every  day." 

"  No ;  I  cannot.  It  would  be  cruel  to  tell  you 
what  I  think,  and  Louise  would  not  like  it  when 
she  knew  I  had  told  you,  and  I  must  tell  her. 
We  tell  each  other  everything." 

"Is  the  color  wrong?"  persisted  Dalny. 
**  I  've  got  the  gray-white  of  the  sky,  as  you 
see,  and  the  reflected  light  from  the  red  plush 
of  the  sofa ;  but  the  shadows  between  —  Would 
you  try  a  touch  of  emerald  green  here  ?  " 

The  old  man  had  risen  from  his  seat  now  and 
was  backing  away  toward  the  door,  his  hat  in 
his  hand,  his  bald  head  and  the  scanty  gray 
hairs  about  his  temples  glistening  in  the  over- 
head light  of  the  studio. 

"  It  would  do  you  no  good,  my  dear  Mr. 
Dalny.  Paint  is  never  color.  Color  is  an  essence, 
a  rhythm,  a  blending  of  tones  as  exquisite  as 
the  blending  of  sounds  in  the  fall  of  a  mountain 
brook.  Match  each  sound  and  you  have  its 
melody.  Match  each  tone  and  you  have  light. 
I  am  working — working.    Good-morning." 

173 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

His  hand  was  now  on  the  door-knob,  his  face 
aglow  with  an  enthusiasm  which  seemed  to 
mingle  with  his  words. 

"Stop!  Don't  go;  that's  what  I  think  my- 
self," cried  Dainy.    "Talk  to  me  about  it." 

The  old  man  dropped  the  knob  and  looked  at 
Dalny  searchingly. 

"You  are  honest  with  me .?  " 

"Perfectly." 

"Then  when  T  triumph  you  shall  see !  — and 
you  shall  see  it  first.  I  will  come  for  you ;  not 
yet — not  yet  —  perhaps  to-morrow,  perhaps 
next  month  —  but  I  will  come  !  "  and  he  bowed 
himself  out. 

The  faded  sister  was  waiting  for  him  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  She  had  seen  her  brother 
mount  the  first  flight  and  the  fourth,  all  this 
by  peering  down  between  the  banisters.  Then 
he  had  disappeared.  This,  being  unusual,  had 
startled  her. 

"You  must  have  stopped  somewhere, 
Adolphe,"  she  said  nervously. 

"  Yes,  Louise;  the  painter  on  the  floor  below 
called  me." 

"  Is  he  poor,  like  us .?  " 

"Poorer.  We  have  the  light  beyond.  He 
has  nothing,  and  never  will  have." 

174 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

**  What  did  he  want?" 

**  A  criticism." 

"And  you  gave  it?  " 

"  No,  I  could  not.  I  had  not  the  heart  to  tell 
him.  He  tries  so  hard.  He  is  honest,  but  his 
work  is  hopeless." 

"Like  the  man  on  the  first  floor,  who  uses 
the  calcium  light  to  show  his  pictures  by  ? " 

"No,  no;  Mr.  Dalny  is  a  gentleman,  not  a 
cheat.  He  thinks,  and  would  learn — he  told 
me  so.  But  he  cannot  see.  Ah,  not  to  see, 
Louise!  Did  you  grind  the  new  blue,  dear? 
Yes  —  and  quite  smooth." 

He  had  taken  off  his  coat  now,  carefully,  the 
lining  being  out  of  one  sleeve.  The  sister  hung 
it  on  a  nail  behind  the  door,  and  the  painter 
picked  up  his  palette  and  stood  looking  at  a 
large  canvas  on  an  easel.  Louise  tiptoed  out  of 
the  room  and  closed  the  door  of  her  own  apart- 
ment. When  her  brother  began  work  she  always 
left  him  alone.  Triumph  might  come  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  even  a  word  wrongly  spoken  might 
distract  his  thoughts  and  spoil  everything.  She 
had  not  forgotten  —  nor  ever  would  —  how,  two 
years  before,  she  had  come  upon  him  suddenly 
just  as  an  exact  tint  had  been  mixed,  and,  be- 
fore he  could  lay  it  on  his  canvas,  had  uncon- 
sciously interrupted  him,  and  all  the  hours  and 

175 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

days  of  study  had  to  be  done  over  again.  Now 
they  had  a  system :  when  she  must  enter  she 
would  cough  gently;  then,  if  he  did  not  hear 
her,  she  would  cough  again;  if  he  did  not 
answer,  she  would  wait,  sometimes  without 
food,  until  far  into  the  afternoon,  when  the  day- 
light failed  him.  Then  he  would  lay  down  his 
palette,  covering  his  colors  with  water,  and  be- 
gin washing  his  brushes.  This  sound  she  knew. 
Only  then  would  she  open  the  door. 

Botts  had  given  Dalny  the  correct  size  of  the 
canvas,  but  he  had  failed  to  describe  the  picture 
covering  it.  It  was  a  landscape  showing  the 
sun  setting  behind  a  mountain,  the  sky  reflected 
in  a  lake ;  in  the  foreground  was  a  stretch  of 
meadow.  The  sky  was  yellow  and  the  moun- 
tain purple;  the  meadow  reddish  brown.  In  the 
centre  of  the  canvas  was  a  white  spot  the  size 
of  a  pill-box.  This  was  the  sun,  and  the  centre  of 
the  color  scheme.  Radiating  from  this  patch 
of  white  were  thousands  of  little  pats  of  chrome 
yellow  and  vermilion,  divided  by  smaller  pats 
of  blue.  The  exact  gradations  of  these  tints 
were  to  produce  the  vibrations  of  light.  One 
false  note  would  destroy  the  rhythm;  hence 
the  hours  of  thought  and  of  endless  trying. 

These  colors  were  not  to  be  bought  at  the 
ordinary  shops.  Certain  rare  oxides  formed  the 
176 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

basis  of  the  yellows,  while  the  filings  of  bits 
of  turquoise  pounded  to  flour  were  used  in  the 
blues.  Louise  did  this,  grinding  the  minerals  by 
the  hour,  her  poor  thin  hands  moving  the  glass 
pestle  over  the  stone  slab.  When  some  care- 
fully thought-out  tint  was  laid  beside  another  as 
carefully  studied,  the  combination  meeting  his 
ideal,  he  would  spring  from  his  seat,  crying  out: 

'  *  Louise !   Louise  I   Light !   Light ! ' ' 

Then  the  little  woman  would  hurry  in  and 
stand  entranced. 

"Oh!  so  brilliant,  Adolphe !  It  hurts  my 
eyes  to  look  at  it.  See  how  it  glows  !  Ah,  it 
will  come!  "  and  she  would  shade  her  wistful 
eyes  with  her  hand  as  if  the  light  from  the  flat 
canvas  dazzled  her.  These  were  gala  hours  in 
the  musty  rooms  at  the  top  of  the  old  Studio 
Building. 

Then  there  would  come  long  days  of  depres- 
sion. The  lower  range  of  color  was  correct,  but 
that  over  the  right  of  the  mountain  and  near  the 
zenith  did  not  pulsate.  The  fault  lay  in  the  poor 
quality  of  the  colors  or  in  the  bad  brushes  or  the 
sky  outside.  The  faded  sister's  face  always  fell 
when  the  trouble  lay  with  the  colors.  Even  the 
small  measure  of  milk  would  then  have  to  be 
given  up  until  the  janitor  came  bearing  another 
letter  with  a  foreign  stamp. 
177 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

Dalny  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  nor  did  any 
one  else  in  the  building  —  nothing  positively  of 
their  home  life — except  from  such  outside  in- 
dications as  the  size  of  the  can  of  milk  and  the 
increasing  shabbiness  of  their  clothes.  Dalny 
had  suspected  it  and  had  tried  to  win  their  con- 
fidence in  his  impulsive  way ;  but  all  his  ad- 
vances had  been  met  by  a  gentle,  almost  pa- 
thetic, reserve  which  was  more  insurmountable 
than  a  direct  repulse.  He  also  wanted  to  learn 
something  more  of  the  old  man's  methods.  He 
had  in  his  own  earlier  student  days  known 
an  old  professor  in  Heidelberg  who  used  to 
talk  to  him  about  violet  and  green,  but  he 
never  got  any  farther  than  talk.  Here  was  a 
man,  a  German,  too,  perhaps, — or  perhaps  a 
Swede  —  he  could  not  tell  from  the  name  — 
some  foreigner,  anyhow,  —  who  was  putting 
his  theories  into  practice,  and,  more  convincing 
still,  was  willing  to  starve  slowly  until  they 
materialized. 

Once  he  had  cornered  the  old  man  on  the 
stairs,  and,  throwing  aside  all  duplicity,  had 
asked  him  the  straight  question  :  — 

"  Will  you  show  me  your  picture  ?  I  showed 
you  mine." 

"Old  Sunshine"  raised  his  wide-brimmed 
hat  from  his  head  by  the  crown  —  it  was  too 
178      -' 


*'OLD  SUNSHINE" 

limp  to  be  lifted  in  any  other  way  —  and  said 
in  a  low  voice :  — 

"  Yes,  when  it  is  a  picture ;  it  is  now  only 
an  experiment." 

"  But  it  will  help  me  if  I  can  see  your  work. 
I  am  but  a  beginner ;  you  are  a  master." 

The  good-natured  touch  of  flattery  made  no 
impression  on  the  old  man. 

"No,"  he  answered,  replacing  his  hat  and 
keeping  on  his  way  downstairs,  "  I  am  not  a 
master.  I  am  a  man  groping  in  the  dark,  fol- 
lowing a  light  that  beckons  me  on.  It  will  not 
help  you;  it  will  hurt  you.  I  will  come  for 
you  ;  I  have  promised,  remember.  Neither  my 
sister  nor  I  ever  break  a  promise.  Good-morn- 
ing !  "    And  again  the  shabby  hat  was  lifted. 

Dalny  stood  outside  his  own  door  listening  to 
the  old  man's  steps  growing  fainter  until  they 
reached  the  street ;  then  he  resumed  his  work 
on  the  green  dress  and  puffy  red  face  of  the 
brewer's  wife,  correcting  the  errors  he  had 
made  when  she  last  sat  for  him,  his  mind  un- 
satisfied, his  curiosity  all  the  more  eager. 

As  the  winter  came  on,  Dalny  began  to  miss 
the  tread  of  the  old  man  outside  his  door.  The 
old  sister  never  made  any  noise,  so  he  never 
knew  when  she  went  up  and  down  unless  he 
happened  to  be  on  the  stairs  at  the  same  mo- 
179 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

ment.  He  knew  the  old  man  was  at  work,  be- 
cause he  could  hear  his  ceaseless  tramp  before 
his  easel  —  walking  up  to  his  picture,  laying  on 
a  pat  of  color,  and  walking  back  again.  He 
himself  had  walked  miles  —  had  been  doing  it 
the  day  before  in  his  efforts  to  give  ' '  carry- 
ing ' '  quality  to  the  shadow  under  the  nose  of 
the  brewer's  better  half. 

"  I  do  not  see  your  brother  anymore,"  Dalny 
had  said  to  her  one  morning,  after  meeting  her 
by  accident  outside  his  door  carrying  a  basket 
with  a  cloth  over  it. 

"  No,"  she  answered  ;  "  no ;  he  cannot  spare 
a  moment  these  days.  He  hardly  takes  time 
to  eat,  and  I  do  all  the  errands.  But  he  is  very 
happy."  Here  her  face  broke  into  a  smile. 
"  Oh,  so  happy  !   We  both  are  "  — 

**  And  is  the  great  picture  finished  ?  "  he  in- 
terrupted, with  a  movement  as  if  to  relieve  her 
of  the  weight  of  the  basket. 

"Almost.  .  .  .  Almost.  .  .  .  Adolphe  will 
tell  you  when  it  is  ready.  No  —  please,  good 
Mr.  Dalny  —  it  is  not  heavy.  But  I  thank  you 
all  the  same  for  wanting  to  help  me.  It  is  a  little 
hot  soup  for  Adolphe.  He  is  very  fond  of  hot 
soup,  and  they  make  it  very  nice  at  the  corner." 

The  day  following  this  interview  Dalny 
heard  strange  noises  overhead.  The  steady 
1 80 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

tramping  had  ceased ;  the  sounds  were  as  if 
heavy  furniture  was  being  moved.  Then  there 
would  come  a  pattering  of  lighter  feet  running 
in  and  out  of  the  connecting  room.  Then  a 
noise  as  if  scrubbing  was  being  done ;  he  thought 
at  one  time  he  heard  the  splash  of  water,  and 
even  looked  up  at  his  own  ceiling  as  if  expecting 
a  leak. 

Suddenly  these  unusual  sounds  ceased,  the 
old  man's  door  was  flung  open,  a  hurried  step 
was  heard  on  the  upper  stairway,  and  a  sharp 
knock  fell  upon  his  own  door. 

Dalny  opened  it  in  the  face  of  the  old  man. 
He  was  bareheaded,  his  eyes  blazing  with  ex- 
citement, his  face  flushed  as  if  by  some  uncon- 
trollable joy. 

"  Come  —  quick  !  "  he  cried  ;  "we  are  all 
ready.  It  was  perfected  this  morning.  We 
have  been  putting  things  in  order  for  you,  for 
we  do  not  ever  have  guests.  But  you  must  be 
careful  —  your  eyes  are  not  accustomed,  per- 
haps, and  "  — 

Dalny  darted  back  without  listening  to  the 
old  man's  conclusion,  and  threw  on  his  coat. 
The  faded  sister  was  upstairs,  and  he  must  be 
presentable. 

**  And  you  like  your  picture,"  burst  out 
Dalny,  as  he  adjusted  his  collar  and  cuffs  — 
i8i 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

part  of  the  old  man's  happiness  had  reached  his 
own  heart  now. 

"  Like  it?  It  is  not  something  to  like,  Mr. 
Dalny.  It  is  not  a  meal ;  it  is  a  religion.  You 
are  in  a  fog,  and  the  sun  bursts  through ;  you 
are  in  a  tunnel,  and  are  swept  out  into  green 
fields ;  you  grope  in  the  dark,  and  an  angel 
leads  you  to  the  light.  You  do  not  *  like ' 
things  then  —  you  thank  God  on  your  knees. 
Louise  has  done  nothing  but  cry." 

These  words  came  in  shortened  sentences 
divided  by  the  mounting  of  each  step,  the  two 
hurrying  up  the  stairs,  "Old  Sunshine  "  ahead, 
Dalny  following. 

The  sister  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  open 
door.  She  had  a  snow-white  kerchief  over  her 
shoulders  and  a  quaint  cap  on  her  head,  evi- 
dently her  best.  Her  eyes,  still  red  from  weep- 
ing, shone  like  flashes  of  sunshine  through  fall- 
ing rain. 

"  Keep  him  here,  Louise,  until  I  get  my  um- 
brella—  lam  afraid.  No;  stay  till  I  come  for 
you  "  —  this  to  Dalny,  who  was,  in  his  eager- 
ness, peering  into  the  well-swept,  orderly  look- 
ing room.  "  Shut  your  eyes  until  I  tell  you  — 
quick!  under  this  umbrella"  (he  had  picked  it 
up  just  inside  the  door) . 

Dalny  suffered  himself  to  be  led  into  the 
182 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

room,  his  head  smothered  under  the  umbrella, 
the  old  man's  hand  firmly  grasping  his  as  if  the 
distance  between  the  door  and  the  masterpiece 
was  along  the  edge  of  an  abyss. 

"  Now !  "  cried  the  old  man,  waving  the 
umbrella  aside. 

Dalny  raised  his  eyes,  and  a  feeling  of  faint- 
ness  came  over  him.  Then  a  peculiar  choking 
sensation  crept  into  his  throat.  For  a  moment 
he  did  not  and  could  not  speak.  The  thousands 
of  little  patches  of  paint  radiating  from  the  centre 
spot  were  but  so  many  blurs  on  a  flat  canvas. 
The  failure  was  pathetic,  but  it  was  complete. 

The  old  man  was  reading  his  face.  The  faded 
sister  had  not  taken  her  eyes  from  his. 

"  It  does  not  dazzle  you !  You  do  not  see  the 
vibrations  ?  " 

"  I  am  getting  my  eyes  accustomed  to  it," 
stammered  Dalny.  "I  cannot  take  it  all  in  at 
once."  He  was  hunting  around  in  his  mind  for 
something  to  say  —  something  that  would  not 
break  the  old  man's  heart. 

"  No  !  You  cannot  deceive  me.  I  had  hoped 
better  things  of  you,  Mr.  Dalny.  It  is  not  your 
fault  that  you  cannot  see." 

The  old  man  had  crossed  to  the  door  of  his 
studio,  had  thrown  it  open,  and   stood  as  if 
waiting  for  Dalny  to  pass  out. 
183 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

"Yes,  but  let  me  look  a  little  longer,"  pro- 
tested Dalny.  The  situation  was  too  pathetic 
for  him  to  be  offended. 

"No  —  no  —  please  excuse  us  —  we  are  very 
happy,  Louise  and  1,  and  I  would  rather  you 
left  us  alone.  I  will  come  for  you  some  other 
time  —  when  my  picture  has  been  sent  away. 
Please  forgive  my  sister  and  me,  but  please  go 
away." 

Weeks  passed  before  Dalny  saw  either  one 
of  the  old  people  again.  He  watched  for  them, 
his  door  ajar,  listening  to  every  sound ;  but  if 
they  passed  up  and  down  the  stairs,  they  did 
so  when  he  was  out  or  asleep.  He  had  no- 
ticed, too,  that  all  was  still  overhead,  except  a 
light  tread  which  he  knew  must  be  the  faded 
sister's.  The  heavier  footfall,  however,  was 
silent. 

One  morning  the  janitor  opened  Dalny's 
door  without  knocking  and  closed  it  softly  be- 
hind him.  He  seemed  laboring  under  some  ex- 
citement. 

"  He  's  up  at  St.  Luke's  Hospital ;  they  took 
him  there  last  night,"  he  said  in  a  whisper, 
jerking  his  thumb  toward  the  ceiling. 

"Who?" 

"'Old  Sunshine.'" 

184 


'*OLD  SUNSHINE" 

"Crazy?" 

'*  No ;  ill  with  fever ;  been  sick  for  a  week. 
Not  bad,  but  the  doctor  would  not  let  him  stay 
here." 

"  Did  the  sister  go  ?  "  There  was  a  note  of 
alarm  in  Dalny's  voice. 

"  No,  she  is  upstairs.  That 's  why  I  came.  I 
don't  think  she  has  much  to  eat.  She  won't  let 
me  in.  Maybe  you  can  get  her  to  talk  to  you  ; 
she  likes  you  — she  told  me  so." 

Dalny  laid  down  his  palette,  tiptoed  hur- 
riedly up  the  stairs,  and  knocked  gently.  There 
was  no  response.  Then  he  knocked  again,  this 
time  much  louder,  and  waited.  He  heard  the 
rustling  of  a  skirt,  but  there  was  no  other 
sound. 

"It's  Mr.  Dalny,  madam,"  he  said  in  the 
kindest,  most  sympathetic  voice  that  ever  came 
out  of  his  throat. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  her  face  peered 
through  the  crack.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes  — 
old  and  new  tears — following  one  another  down 
her  furrowed  cheeks. 

"  He  is  gone  away ;  they  took  him  last  night, 
Mr.  Dalny."  Her  voice  broke,  but  she  still 
kept  the  edge  of  the  door  in  her  trembling 
hand. 

"Yes;  I  have  just  heard  about  it.   Let  me 

185 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

come  in,  please ;  I  want  to  help  you.   You  are 
all  alone." 

Her  grasp  slackened,  and  Dalny  stepped  in. 
The  room  was  in  some  confusion.  The  bed 
where  her  brother  had  been  ill  was  still  in  dis- 
order, the  screen  that  had  concealed  it  pushed 
to  one  side.  On  a  table  by  his  easel  were 
the  remains  of  a  meal.  The  masterpiece  still 
stared  out  from  its  place.  The  sister  walked  to 
a  lounge  and  sat  down. 

"Tell  me  the  truth,"  Dalny  said,  seating 
himself  beside  her.  "  Have  you  any  money.'  " 

"  No  ;  our  letter  has  not  come." 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  do  ?  " 

"I  must  sell  something." 

"Let  me  lend  you  some  money.  I  have 
plenty,  for  I  shall  get  paid  for  my  picture  to- 
morrow ;  then  you  can  pay  it  back  when  yours 
comes." 

"Oh,  you  are  so  kind,  but  we  must  sell 
something  of  our  own.  We  owe  a  large  sum ; 
the  rent  is  two  months  due,  and  there  are  other 
things,  and  Adolphe  must  have  some  comforts. 
No,  I  am  not  offended,  but  Adolphe  would  be  if 
he  knew." 

Dalny  looked  into  space  for  a  moment,  and 
asked  thoughtfully,  "  How  much  do  you 
owe  ?  " 

i86 


*'OLD  SUNSHINE" 

**  Oh,  a  great  deal,"  she  answered  simply. 

"What  things  will  you  sell  ?  "  At  least  he 
could  help  her  in  this. 

The  faded  old  lady  looked  up  at  Dalny  and 
pointed  to  the  masterpiece. 

"  It  breaks  our  heart  to  send  it  away,  but 
there  is  nothing  else  to  do.  It  will  bring,  too,  a 
great  price ;  nothing  else  we  possess  will  bring 
as  much.  Then  we  will  have  no  more  poverty, 
and  some  one  may  buy  it  who  will  love  it,  and 
so  my  brother  will  get  his  reward." 

Dalny  swept  his  eye  around.  The  furniture 
was  of  the  shabbiest;  pictures  and  sketches 
tacked  to  the  wall,  but  experiments  in  "  Old 
Sunshine's"  pet  theories.  Nothing  else  would 
bring  anything.  And  the  masterpiece !  That, 
he  knew,  would  not  bring  the  cost  of  its  frame. 

"Where  will  you  send  it  to  be  sold — to  an 
art  dealer  ?  "  Dalny  asked.  He  could  speak  a 
good  word  for  it,  perhaps,  if  it  should  be  sent 
to  some  dealer  he  knew. 

"No;  to  a  place  in  Cedar  Street,  where 
Adolphe  sold  some  sketches  his  brother  paint- 
ers gave  him  in  their  student  days.  One  by 
Achenbach  —  Oswald,  not  Andreas — brought 
a  large  sum.  It  was  a  great  help  to  us.  I  have 
written  the  gentleman  who  keeps  the  auction- 
room,  and  he  is  to  send  for  the  picture  to-mor- 

187 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

row,  and  it  will  be  sold  in  his  next  picture  sale. 
Adolphe  was  willing;  he  told  me  to  do  it. 
'  Some  one  will  know,'  he  said ;  *  and  we  ought 
not  to  enjoy  it  all  to  ourselves.'  Then  again, 
the  problem  has  been  solved.  All  his  pictures 
after  this  will  be  full  of  beautiful  light." 

The  auction-room  was  crowded.  There  was 
to  be  a  sale  of  French  pictures,  some  by  the 
men  of  '30  and  some  by  the  more  advanced 
impressionists.  Many  out-of-town  buyers  were 
present,  a  few  of  them  dealers.  Dalny  rubbed 
his  hands  together  in  a  pleased  way  when  he 
looked  over  the  audience  and  the  collection. 
It  was  quite  possible  that  some  connoisseur 
newly  made  would  take  a  fancy  to  the  master- 
piece, confounding  it  with  some  one  of  the 
pictures  of  the  Upside-down  School  —  pictures 
looking  equally  well  whichever  way  they  might 
be  hung. 

The  selling  began. 

A  Corot  brought  $2700 ;  a  Daubigny,  $940 ; 
two  examples  of  the  reigning  success  in  Paris, 
$iioo.  Twenty-two  pictures  had  been  sold. 

Then  the  masterpiece  was  placed  on  the  easel. 

"A  Sunrise.  By  Adolphe  Woolfsen  of  Dus- 
seldorf , ' '  called  out  the  auctioneer.  ' '  What  am 
1  offered  ?  " 

188 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

There  came  a  pause,  and  the  auctioneer  re- 
peated the  announcement. 

A  man  sitting  by  the  auctioneer,  near  enough 
to  see  every  touch  of  the  brush  on  "  Old  Sun- 
shine's" picture,  laughed,  and  nudged  the  man 
next  to  him.   Several  others  joined  in. 

Then  came  a  voice  from  behind  :  — 

"  Five  dollars  !  " 

The  auctioneer  shrank  a  little,  a  pained,  sur- 
prised feeling  overspreading  his  face,  as  if  some 
one  had  thrown  a  bit  of  orange-peel  at  him. 
Then  he  went  on  :  — 

"Five  dollars  it  is,  gentlemen.  Five  —  five  — 
five  !  "  Even  he,  with  all  the  tricks  of  his  trade 
at  his  fingers'  ends,  could  not  find  a  good  word 
to  say  for  "  Old  Sunshine's  "  masterpiece. 

Dalny  kept  shifting  his  feet  in  his  uneasiness. 
His  hands  opened  and  shut ;  his  throat  began  to 
get  dry.  Then  he  broke  loose  :  — 

"  One  hundred  dollars  !  " 

The  auctioneer's  face  lighted  up  as  suddenly 
as  if  the  calcium  light  of  the  painter  whom 
"Old  Sunshine"  despised  had  been  thrown 
upon  it. 

"  I  have  your  bid,  Mr.  Dalny  [he  knew  him] 
—  one  hundred  —  hundred  —  hundred  —  one  — 
one  —  third  and  last  call !  " 

Dalny  thought  of  the  gentle  old  face  waiting 
189 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  of  the  old  man's 
anxious  look  as  he  lay  on  his  pillow.  The  auc- 
tioneer had  seen  Dalny's  eager  expression  and 
at  once  began  to  address  an  imaginary  bidder  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room  —  his  clerk,  really. 

*'  Two  hundred  —  two  hundred  —  two  —  two 
—  two"  — 

"Three  hundred  !  "  shouted  Dalny. 

Again  the  clerk  nodded  :  — 

"Four  — four!" 

"Five!  "  shouted  Dalny.  This  was  all  the 
money  he  would  get  in  the  morning  excepting 
fifty  dollars  —  and  that  he  owed  for  his  rent. 

"  Five  —  five  —  five  !  —  third  and  last  call  I 
SOLD  !  and  to  you,  Mr.  Dalny  !  Gentlemen, 
you  seem  to  have  been  asleep.  One  of  the  most 
distinguished  painters  of  our  time  is  the  pos- 
sessor of  this  picture,  which  only  shows  that  it 
takes  an  artist  to  pick  out  a  good  thing  !  " 

She  was  waiting  for  him  in  her  room,  her  own 
door  ajar  this  time.  He  had  promised  to  come 
back,  and  she  was  then  to  go  to  the  hospital 
and  tell  the  good  news  to  her  brother. 

With  his  heart  aglow  with  the  pleasure  in 
store  for  her,  he  bounded  up  the  stairs,  both 
hands  held  out,  his  face  beaming  :  — 

"Wonderful  success!  Bought  by  a  distin- 
190 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

guished  connoisseur  who  won't  let  the  auction- 
eer give  his  name." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  happy!"  she  answered.  "That 
is  really  better  than  the  money;  and  for  how 
much,  dear  Mr.  Dalny  ?  " 

"Five  hundred  dollars ! '' 

The  faded  sister's  face  fell. 

"  I  thought  it  would  bring  a  great  deal  more, 
but  then  Adolphe  will  be  content.  It  was  the 
lowest  sum  he  mentioned  when  he  decided  to 
sell  it.  Will  you  go  with  me  to  tell  him  f 
Please  do." 

In  the  office  of  the  hospital  Dalny  stopped  to 
talk  to  the  doctor,  the  sister  going  on  up  to  the 
ward  where  "Old  Sunshine  "  lay. 

"Is  he  better?  "  asked  Dalny.  "He  is  a 
friend  of  mine." 

The  doctor  tapped  his  forehead  significantly 
with  his  forefinger. 

"  Brain  trouble }  "  asked  Dalny  in  a  subdued 
tone. 

"Yes." 

"  Will  he  get  well .?  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  discouragingly. 

"How  long  will  he  last?  " 

"Perhaps  a  week — perhaps  not  twenty- 
four  hours." 

The  faded  sister  now  entered.   Her  face  was 

191 


"OLD  SUNSHINE" 

still  smiling  —  no  one  had  yet  told  her  about 
her  brother. 

"  Oh,  he  is  so  happy,  Mr.  Dalny." 

"  And  you  told  him  ?  " 

"Yes!  Yes!" 

"  And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  put  his  arms  around  me  and  kissed  me, 
and  then  he  whispered,  '  Oh  !  Louise,  Louise  ! 
the  connoisseur  knew  I '  " 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

AFTER  a  fit  of  choking  that  could  be  heard 
all  over  the  train  the  left  lung  of  the  loco- 
motive gave  out.  I  had  heard  her  coughing  up 
the  long  grade  and  had  begun  to  wonder  whether 
she  would  pull  through,  when  she  gave  a  wheeze 
and  then  a  jerk,  and  out  went  her  cylinder 
head. 

Boston  was  four  hours  away  and  time  of 
value  to  me.  So  it  was  to  all  the  other  pas- 
sengers, judging  from  the  variety  and  pun- 
gency of  their  remarks  —  all  except  one,  an  old 
lady  who  had  boarded  the  train  at  a  station 
near  the  foot  of  the  long  grade  and  who  occu- 
pied a  seat  immediately  in  front  of  mine. 

Such  a  dear  old  lady !  plump  and  restful,  a 
gray  worsted  shawl  about  her  shoulders  and  a 
reticule  on  her  arm.  An  old  lady  with  a  round 
rosy  face  framed  in  a  hood-of-a-bonnet  edged 
with  ruffles,  the  strings  tied  under  her  chin, 
her  two  soft,  human,  kindly  eyes  peering  at  you 
over  her  gold-rimmed  spectacles  resting  on  the 
end  of  her  nose.  The  sort  of  an  old  lady  that 
you  would  like  to  have  had  for  a  mother  pro- 
193 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

vided  you  never  had  one  of  your  own  that  you 
could  remember  —  so  comforting  would  have 
been  her  touch. 

As  the  delay  continued,  the  passengers  made 
remarks.  Some  I  cannot  remember ;  others  I 
cannot  print. 

One  man  in  unblacked  boots,  with  a  full  set 
of  dusting-brush  whiskers  sticking  up  above  his 
collarless  shirt,  smooth-shaven  chin,  red  face, 
and  a  shock  of  iron-gray  hair  held  in  place  by  a 
slouch  hat,  said  he  'd  "  be  doggoned  if  he  ever 
knowed  where  he  was  at  when  he  travelled  on 
this  road." 

Another  —  a  man  with  a  leather  case  filled 
with  samples  on  the  seat  beside  him  —  a  rest- 
less, loud-talking  man,  remarked  that  "they 
ought  to  build  a  cemetery  at  both  ends  of  the 
road,  and  then  the  mourners  could  go  in  a  walk 
and  everybody  would  be  satisfied,  instead  of 
trying  to  haul  trains  loaded  with  live  people 
that  wanted  to  get  somewheres." 

Another  —  a  woman  this  time,  in  a  flower- 
covered  hat  and  shiny  brown  silk  dress,  new, 
and  evidently  the  pride  of  her  heart  from  the 
care  she  took  of  it  —  one  of  those  crisp,  breezy, 
outspoken  women  of  forty-five  or  fifty  —  slim, 
narrow-faced,  keen-eyed,  with  a  red  —  quite 
red  —  nose  that  would  one  day  meet  an  ambi- 
194 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

tious  upturned  chin,  and  straight,  firm  mouth, 
the  under  lip  pressed  tight  against  the  upper 
one  when  her  mind  was  made  up  —  remarked 
in  a  voice  that  sounded  like  a  buzz-saw  striking 
a  knot :  — 

"You  ain't  tellin'  me  that  we're  goin'  to 
miss  the  train  at  Springfield,  be  ye  ?  " 

This  remark  being  addressed  to  the  car  as  a 
whole  —  no  single  passenger  having  vouchsafed 
any  such  information  —  was  received  in  dead 
silence. 

The  arrival  of  the  conductor,  wiping  the 
grease  and  grime  from  his  hands  with  a  wad 
of  cotton-waste,  revived  hope  for  a  moment  and 
encouraged  an  air  of  gayety. 

He  was  a  gentlemanly  conductor,  patient, 
accustomed  to  be  abused  and  brief  in  his  re- 
plies. 

**  Maybe  one  hour ;  maybe  six." 

The  gayety  ceased. 

The  bewhiskered  man  said,  "  Well,  I  *11  be 
gosh-durned  I " 

The  sample-case  man  said,  " 

"    (You   can  fill  that  up  at  your 

leisure.) 

The  woman  in  the  brown  silk  rose  to  her 
feet,  gathered  her  skirts  carefully  in  her  hand, 
skewered  the  conductor  with  her  eye,  and  said : 

195 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

"  You  've  gone  and  sp'ilt  my  day,  that 's  what 
you've  gone  and  done;"  and,  receiving  no 
reply,  crossed  the  aisle  and  plumped  herself 
down  in  the  overturned  seat  opposite  the  dear 
old  lady,  adding,  as  she  shook  out  her  skirt : — 

"  Dirt  mean,  ain't  it  ?  " 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  looked  at  the  Woman 
in  Brown,  nodded  in  kindly  assent,  gazed  at  the 
conductor  over  her  spectacles  until  he  had  closed 
the  door,  and  said  in  a  low,  sweet  voice  that 
was  addressed  to  nobody  in  particular,  and  yet 
which  permeated  the  car  like  a  strain  of  music  : 

"Well,  if  we're  going  to  be  here  for  six 
hours  I  guess  I  '11  knit." 

Just  here  I  began  to  be  interested.  The 
philosophy  of  the  dear  woman's  life  had  evi- 
dently made  her  proof  against  such  trivialities. 
Six  hours  !  What  difference  did  it  make  ? 
There  was  a  flavor  of  the  Mariana  por  la  ma- 
hana  of  the  Spaniard  and  the  Dolce  far  niente 
of  the  Italian  in  her  acceptance  of  the  situation 
that  appealed  to  me.  Another  sun  would  rise 
on  the  morrow  as  beautiful  as  the  one  we  had 
to-day ;  why  worry  over  its  setting  ?  Let  us 
eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  —  or  knit.  It  was  all 
the  same  to  her. 

I  immediately  wanted  to  know  more  of  this 
passenger  —  a  desire  that  did  not  in  the  slight- 
196 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

est  degree  extend  to  any  other  inmate  of  the 
car.  And  yet  there  were  restrictions  and  bar- 
riers which  I  could  not  pass.  Not  occupying 
the  seat  beside  her  or  opposite  her,  but  the  one 
behind  her,  I,  of  course,  was  not  on  terms  of 
such  intimacy  as  would  make  it  possible  for 
me  to  presume  upon  her  privacy.  She  was 
occupying  her  own  house,  as  it  were,  framed  in 
between  two  seat-backs  turned  to  face  each 
other,  giving  her  the  use  of  four  seats  —  one  of 
which  had  been  usurped  by  the  Woman  in 
Brown.  I  had  my  one  seat  with  my  bag  beside 
me,  giving  me  the  privileges  of  two  sittings.  Be- 
tween us,  of  course,  was  the  back  of  her  own 
seat,  over  which  1  looked  and  studied  her  back 
hair  and  bonnet  and  shawl  and  —  knitting. 

Under  the  circumstances  1  could  no  more  in- 
trude upon  the  Dear  Old  Lady's  privacy  than 
upon  a  neighbor's  who  lived  next  door  to  me  but 
whom  I  did  not  know  and  who  was  separated 
from  me  only  by  an  eight-inch  brick  wall.  The 
conventionalities  of  life  enforce  these  conditions. 
When,  therefore,  the  Dear  Old  Lady  informed 
me  and  the  car  that  she  would  "knit,"  I  got 
myself  into  position  to  watch  the  operation ; 
not  obtrusively,  not  with  any  intention  of  pry- 
ing into  her  private  life,  but  just  because  — 
well,  just  because  I  could  n't  help  it. 
197 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

There  was  something  about  her,  somehow, 
that  I  could  not  resist.  I  knew  a  Dear  Old 
Lady  once.  She  was  n't  so  stout  as  this  old 
lady  and  her  eyes  were  not  brown,  but  blue, 
and  her  hair  smooth  as  gray  satin  and  of  the 
same  color.  I  can  see  her  now  as  I  write,  the 
lamplight  falling  on  her  ivory  needles  and  tan- 
gle of  white  yarn  —  and  sometimes,  even  now, 
I  think  I  hear  her  voice. 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  before  me  felt  in  her 
pocket,  pulling  up  her  overskirt  and  fumbling 
about  for  a  mysterious  pouch  that  was  tied 
around  her  waist,  perhaps,  and  in  which  she 
carried  her  purse,  and  then  she  pinched  her 
reticule  and  said  to  herself  —  I  was  so  near  I 
could  hear  every  word  :  "  Oh,  I  guess  I  put  it 
in  the  bag  "  — and  she  leaned  over  and  began  un- 
fastening the  clasps  of  an  old-fashioned  carpet- 
bag, encased  in  a  pocket  edition  of  a  linen  duster, 
which  rested  on  the  seat  in  front  of  her  and  be- 
side the  Woman  in  Brown,  who  drew  her  im- 
maculate, never-to-be-spotted  silk  skirt  out  of 
the  way  of  any  possible  polluting  touch. 

1  craned  my  head.  Somehow  I  could  hardly 
wait  to  see  what  kind  of  knitting  she  would 
take  out  —  whether  it  was  a  man's  stocking 
or  a  baby's  mitten  or  a  pair  of  wee  socks,  or  a 
stripe  to  sew  in  an  afghan  to  put  over  some- 
198 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

body's  bed.  What  stories  could  be  written 
about  the  things  dear  old  ladies  knit  —  what 
stories  they  are,  really  I  In  every  ball  of  yarn 
there  is  a  thread  that  leads  from  one  heart  to 
another :  to  some  big  son  or  fragile  daughter, 
or  to  the  owner  of  a  pair  of  pink  toes  that  won't 
stay  covered  no  matter  how  close  the  crib  —  or 
to  a  chubby-faced  boy  with  frost-tipped  ears 
or  cheeks. 

First  came  the  ball  of  yarn  —  just  plain  gray 
yarn  —  and  then  two  steel  needles,  and  then  — 

Then  the  Dear  Old  Lady  stopped,  and  an 
expression  of  blank  amazement  overspread  her 
sweet  face  as  her  fingers  searched  the  interior 
of  the  bag. 

"Why,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  why  !  Well ! 
You  don't  tell  me  that  —  well !  I  never  knew 
that  to  happen  before.  Oh,  is  n't  that  dreadful ! 
Well,  I  never!''  Here  she  drew  out  an  unfin- 
ished gray  yarn  stocking.  "Just  look  at  it! 
Is  n't  it  awful !  " 

The  Woman  in  Brown  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
switched  her  dress  close  to  her  knees. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  cried. 

"Jam!  "  answered  the  old  lady. 

"  Jam  !   You  don't  mean  to  say  "  — 

"That's  just  what  it  is.  Blackberry  jam, 
that  my  Lizzie  put  up  for  John  just  before  I 
199 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

left  home  and  —  oh,  is  n't  it  too  bad  !   It 's 

streaming  all  over  the  seat  and  running  down 
on  the  floor !  Oh  my  !  my  !  " 

The  Woman  in  Brown  gave  a  bound  and  was 
out  in  the  aisle.  "Well,  I  should  think,"  she 
cried  indignantly,  "  that  you  'd  had  sense  enough 
to  know  better  than  to  carry  jam  in  a  thing  like 
that.   I  ain't  got  none  on  me,  hev  I  ?  " 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  did  n't  reply.  She  was 
too  much  absorbed  in  her  own  misfortunes  to 
notice  her  companions. 

**I  told  Lizzie,"  she  continued,  "just  'fore  I 
left,  that  she  oughter  put  it  in  a  basket,  but 
she  'lowed  that  it  had  a  tin  cap  and  was  screwed 
tight,  and  that  she  'd  stuff  it  down  in  my  clothes 
and  it  would  carry  all  right.  1  ain't  never  left 
it  out  of  my  hand  but  once,  and  then  I  give  it 
to  the  man  who  helped  me  up  the  steps.  He 
must  have  set  it  down  sudden  like." 

As  she  spoke  she  drew  out  from  the  inside 
of  the  bag  certain  articles  of  apparel  which  she 
laid  on  the  seat.  One  —  evidently  a  neck  hand- 
kerchief—  looked  like  a  towel  that  had  just 
wiped  off  the  face  of  a  boy  who  had  swallowed 
the  contents  of  the  jar. 

The  Woman  in  Brown  was  in  the  aisle  now 
examining  her  skirts,  twisting  them  round  and 
round  in  search  of  stray  bits  of  jam.  The  Dear 

200 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

Old  Lady  was  still  at  work  in  her  bag,  her  back 
shielding  its  smeared  contents.  Trickling  down 
upon  the  floor  and  puddling  in  the  aisle  and  un- 
der the  seats  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  car  ran 
a  sticky  fluid  that  the  woman  avoided  stepping 
upon  with  as  much  care  as  if  it  had  been  a 
snake. 

I  started  forward  to  help,  and  then  I  suddenly 
checked  myself.  What  could  I  do  ?  The  black- 
berry jam  had  not  only  soaked  John's  stock- 
ings, but  it  had  also  permeated.  Well,  the 
Dear  Old  Lady  was  travelling  and  evidently  on 
the  way  to  see  John  —  her  son,  no  doubt  — 
and  to  stay  all  night.  No,  it  was  beyond  ques- 
tion ;  I  could  not  be  of  the  slightest  use.  Then 
again,  there  was  a  woman  present.  Whatever 
help  the  Dear  Old  Lady  needed  should  come 
from  her. 

"You  ain't  got  no  knife,  I  suppose.?"  I 
heard  the  Woman  in  Brown  say.  "  If  you  had 
you  could  scrape  most  of  it  off." 

"  No,"  answered  the  Dear  Old  Lady. 
**  Have  you  ?  " 

"Well,  I  did  hev,  but  I  don't  just  know  where 
it  is.  It  would  gorm  that  up,  too,  maybe,  if  I 
did  find  it." 

"No,  I  guess  the  best  way  is  to  try  and  wash 
it  off.   I  'II  get  rid  of  this  anyway,"  the  Dear 

201 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

Old  Lady  answered ;  and  out  came  the  treach- 
erous jar  with  the  crack  extending  down  its 
side,  its  metal  top  loose,  the  whole  wrapped  in 
yellow  paper  —  all  of  which  she  dropped  out  of 
the  open  window. 

During  this  last  examination  the  Woman  in 
Brown  stood  in  the  aisle,  her  skirts  above  her 
ankles.  It  was  n't  her  bag,  or  her  stockings,  or 
her  jam.  She  had  paid  her  fare  and  was  entitled 
to  her  seat  and  its  surrounding  comforts :  I  had 
a  good  view  of  her  face  as  she  stood  in  front  of 
me,  and  I  saw  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 
To  this  air  of  being  imposed  upon,  first  by  the 
railroad  and  now  by  this  fellow  passenger,  was 
added  a  certain  air  of  disgust  —  a  contempt  for 
any  one,  however  old,  who  could  be  so  stupid 
and  careless.  The  little  wrinkles  that  kept 
puckering  at  the  base  of  her  red  lobster-claw  of 
a  nose  —  it  really  looked  like  one  —  helped  me 
in  this  diagnosis.  Its  shape  prevented  her  from 
turning  it  up  at  anybody,  and  wrinkling  was 
all  that  was  left.  Having  read  her  thoughts  as 
reflected  in  her  face,  I  was  no  longer  surprised 
that  she  continued  standing  without  offering 
in  any  way  to  help  her  companion  out  of  her 
dilemma. 

The  Dear  Old  Lady's  examination  over,  and 
the  intricacies  of  her  bag  explored  and  the  cor- 

202 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

ners  of  certain  articles  of  apparel  lifted  and 
immediately  replaced  again,  she  said  to  herself, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief :  — 

"Ain't  but  one  stocking  tetched,  anyhow. 
Most  of  it 's  gone  into  my  shoes  —  yes,  that 's 
better.   Oh,  I  was  so  scared  !  " 

"  Everything  stuck  up,  ain't  it  ?  "  rasped  the 
Woman.  She  had  n't  taken  her  seat  yet.  It 
seemed  to  me  she  could  get  more  comfort  out 
of  the  Old  Lady's  misery  standing  up. 

"Well,  it  might  ha'  been  worse,  but  I  ain't 
goin'  to  worry  a  mite  over  it.  I' 11  go  to  the 
cooler  and  wash  up  what  I  can,  and  the  rest 's 
got  to  wait  till  I  get  to  John's,"  she  said  in  her 
sweet,  patient  way,  as  she  gathered  up  the  bag 
and  its  contents  and  made  her  way  to  the  wash- 
basin. 

The  car  relapsed  into  its  former  dull  condi- 
tion. Those  of  the  passengers  who  were  not 
experts  and  whose  advice,  if  taken,  would  have 
immediately  replaced  the  cylinder  head  and  sent 
the  train  in  on  time,  were  picking  flowers  out- 
side the  track,  but  close  enough  to  the  train  to 
spring  aboard  at  the  first  sign  of  life  in  the 
motive  power.  Every  now  and  then  there  would 
come  a  back-thrust  of  the  car  and  a  bumping 
into  the  one  behind  us.  Some  scientist  who  had 
spent  his  life  in  a  country  store  hereupon  ex- 
203 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

plained  to  a  mechanical  engineer  who  had  a 
market  garden  out  of  Springfield  (I  learned  this 
from  their  conversation)  that  "  it  was  the  b'iler 
that  acted  that  way ;  the  engineer  was  lettin' 
off  steam  and  the  jerk  come  when  he  raised  the 
safety  valve." 

A  brakeman  now  opened  the  door  nearest  the 
water  cooler,  passed  the  old  lady  washing  up, 
ran  amuck  through  a  volley  of  questions  fired  at 
him  in  rapid  succession,  and  slammed  the  other 
door  behind  him  without  replying  to  one  of 
them.  In  this  fusillade  the  Woman  in  Brown, 
who  had  now  turned  over  a  flower-picking  pas- 
senger's seat  in  addition  to  her  own,  had  man- 
aged her  tongue  with  the  rapidity  and  precision 
of  a  Catling  gun. 

One  of  those  mysterious  rumors,  picked  up 
from  some  scrap  of  conversation  heard  outside, 
now  drifted  through  the  car.  It  conveyed  the 
information  that  another  engine  had  been  tele- 
graphed for  and  would  be  along  soon.  This 
possibility  the  Sample-Case  Man  demolished  by 
remarking  in  his  peculiar  vernacular  —  unprint- 
able, all  of  it  —  that  it  was  ten  miles  to  the 
nearest  telegraph  station  and  it  would  take  two 
hours  to  walk  it. 

The  bottom  having  dropped  out  of  this  slight 
hope,  the  car  relapsed  into  its  dull  monotony. 
204 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

No  statement  now  of  any  kind  would  be  believed 
by  anybody. 

During  this  depression  I  espied  the  Dear  Old 
Lady  making  her  way  down  the  aisle.  No  trace 
of  anxiety  was  on  her  face.  The  bag  had 
resumed  its  former  appearance,  its  linen  duster 
buttoned  tight  over  its  ample  chest. 

The  Woman  in  Brown  was  waiting  for  her, 
her  feet  up  on  the  flower-picking  passenger's 
seat,  her  precious  brown  silk  tucked  in  above 
her  shoes. 

"  Quite  a  muss,  warn't  it  ?  "  she  said  with 
rather  a  gleeful  tone,  as  if  she  rejoiced  in  the 
Old  Lady's  punishment  for  her  stupidity. 

**  Yes,  but  it 's  all  right  now.  It  soaked 
through  my  shoes  and  went  all  over  my  cap, 
and  "  —  Here  she  bent  her  head  and  whispered 
into  the  Woman's  ear.  I  realized  then  how  im- 
possible it  would  have  been  for  me  to  have  ren- 
dered the  slightest  assistance. 

She  had  taken  her  seat  now  and  had  laid  the 
bag  in  its  original  position  on  the  cushion  in 
front  of  her.  My  heart  had  gone  out  to  her,  but 
I  was  powerless  to  help.  Once  or  twice  I  conned 
over  in  my  mind  an  expression  of  sympathy, 
but  I  could  not  decide  on  just  what  I  ought  to 
say  and  when  I  ought  to  say  it,  and  so  I  kept 
silent.  1  should  not  have  felt  that  way  about 
205 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

the  Woman  in  Brown,  who  sat  across  from  me, 
her  two  feet  patting  away  on  the  seat  cushion 
as  if  to  express  her  delight  that  she  had  es- 
caped the  catastrophe  (toes  express  joy  oftener 
than  fingers,  if  we  did  but  know  it) .  It  would 
not  have  taken  me  five  seconds  to  express  my 
opinion  of  her  —  with  my  toes  had  she  been  a 
man. 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  began  now  to  rearrange 
her  toilet,  drawing  up  her  shawl,  tightening  the 
strings  of  her  comfortable  bonnet,  wiping  the 
big  gold  spectacles  on  a  bit  of  chamois  from  her 
reticule.  I  watched  every  movement.  Some- 
how I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  from  her.  Then 
I  heard  her  say  in  a  low  voice  to  herself :  — 

"Well,  the  toe  warn't  stained  —  I  guess  I  can 
work  on  that." 

Out  came  the  needles  and  yarn  again,  and 
the  wrinkled  fingers  settled  down  to  their  work. 
No  more  charming  picture  in  the  world  than  the 
one  now  before  me  ! 

The  Woman  in  Brown  held  a  different  opinion. 
Craning  her  head  and  getting  a  full  view  of  the 
Dear  Old  Lady  peacefully  and  comfortably  at 
work,  all  her  sorrows  ended,  she  snapped  out : 

"  I  s'pose  ye  don't  know  I  can't  put  my  feet 
down  nowheres.  It 's  all  a  muck  'round  here ; 
you  seed  it  when  the  jar  fust  busted,  'cause  I 
206 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

heard  ye  say  so.  I  been  'spectin'  ye  'd  clean  it 
up  somehow." 

Down  went  the  knitting  and  up  she  got. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry.  I  '11  get  a  newspaper 
and  wipe  it  up.  I  hope  you  did  n't  get  none  on 
your  clothes." 

"  Oh,  I  took  care  o'  that !  This  is  a  brand- 
new  dress  and  I  ain't  wore  it  afore.  I  don't  get 
nothin'  on  my  clothes  —  1  ain't  that  kind." 
This  last  came  with  a  note  of  triumph  in  her 
voice. 

I  watched  the  Dear  Old  Lady  lean  over  the 
thin  axe-handle  ankles  of  the  Woman  in  Brown, 
mop  up  a  little  pool  of  jam  juice,  tuck  the 
stained  paper  under  the  crossbar,  and  regain 
her  seat.  1  started  up  to  help,  but  it  was  all 
over  before  1  could  interfere. 

The  Dear  Old  Lady  resumed  her  knitting. 
The  Woman  in  Brown  put  down  her  feet ;  her 
rights  had  been  recognized  and  she  was  satis- 
fied.  I  kept  up  my  vigil. 

Soon  a  movement  opposite  attracted  me.  I 
raised  my  eyes.  The  Woman  in  Brown,  with 
her  eye  on  the  Dear  Old  Lady,  was  stealthily 
opening  a  small  paper  bundle.  She  had  the  air 
of  a  boy  watching  a  policeman.  The  paper 
parcel  contained  a  red  napkin,  a  dinner  knife, 
and  two  fat  sandwiches  streaming  with  butter. 

207 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

"  Oh,  you  brought  your  lunch  with  you,  did 
ye  ?  "  remarked  the  Dear  Old  Lady,  who  had 
unexpectedly  raised  her  eyes  from  her  knitting 
and  at  the  wrong  moment. 

"Well,  jes'  a  bite.  I  'd  offer  ye  some,  but  I 
heard  ye  say  that  you  were  goin'  to  eat  dinner 
with  your  son.   That 's  so,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

The  needles  kept  on  their  course,  the  Dear 
Old  Lady's  thoughts  worked  in  with  every 
stitch.  It  was  now  twelve  o'clock,  and  Boston 
hours  away.  John  would  dine  late  if  he  waited 
for  his  old  mother. 

The  red  napkin  had  now  been  laid  on  the 
seat  cushion  and  the  sandwiches  placed  side  by 
side  in  full  sight  of  the  car.  Concealment  was 
no  longer  necessary. 

"  I  don't  s'pose  ye  left  any  water  in  the 
cooler,  did  ye  .?  " 

"Oh,  plenty,"  came  the  reply,  the  needles 
still  plying,  the  dear  face  fixed  on  their  move- 
ment. 

"  Well,  then,  I  guess  before  I  eat  I  '11  get  a 
cup,"  and  she  covered  the  luncheon  with  the 
brown  paper  and  passed  down  the  aisle. 

During  her  brief  absence  several  important 
incidents  took  place.  First  there  came  a  jerk 
that  felt  for  a  moment  like  a  head-on  collision. 
208 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

This  was  a  new  locomotive,  which  had  been 
sent  to  our  relief,  butting  into  the  rear  car. 
Then  followed  a  rush  of  passengers,  flower- 
pickers,  mechanical  engineers,  scientists,  sam- 
ple-case man,  and,  last,  the  man  with  the  dust- 
ing-brush whiskers.  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
located  his  seat  by  his  umbrella  in  the  rack 
overhead,  picked  up  the  paper  parcel,  trans- 
ferred it  to  the  other  seat,  the  one  the  Woman 
in  Brown  had  just  left,  tilted  forward  the  back, 
and  sat  down. 

When  he  had  settled  himself  and  raised  his 
head,  the  Woman  in  Brown  stood  over  him 
looking  into  his  eyes,  an  angry  expression  on 
her  face.   She  held  a  cup  of  water  in  her  hand. 

"  My  seat,  ain't  it  ?  "  he  blurted  out. 

"  Yes,  'spec'  it  is,"  she  snarled  back,  "long 
as  you  want  it."  And  she  gathered  her  skirts 
carefully,  edged  into  the  reduced  space  of  her 
former  seat,  laid  the  cup  of  water  on  the  sill  of 
the  window,  and  sat  down  as  carefully  as  a  hen 
adjusting  herself  to  a  nest,  and,  I  thought,  with 
precisely  the  same  movement. 

A  moment  more  and  she  leaned  over  the 
seat-back  and  said  to  the  bewhiskered  man :  — 

"  Hand  me  that  napkin  and  stuff,  will  ye  ?  " 

The  man  moved  his  arm,  picked  up  his  news- 
paper, looked  under  it,  and  said :  — 
209 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

"It  ain't  here." 

' '  Well,  I  guess  it  is.  I  sot  it  there  not  more  'n 
two  minutes  ago  !  " 

The  man  settled  himself  in  his  seat  and  began 
to  read. 

"Look  'round  there,  will  ye?  Maybe  it 
dropped  on  the  floor." 

"  It  ain't  on  the  floor.  Guess  I  know  a  nap- 
kin when  I  see  it."  This  came  with  some 
degree  of  positiveness. 

"  Well,  it  ain't  here.  I  left  it  right  where 
you  're  a-sittin'  when  I  went  and  got  this  water. 
You  ain't  eat  it,  hev  ye  ? "  She  was  still  in  her 
seat,  her  head  twisted  about,  her  face  express- 
ing every  thought  that  crossed  her  mind. 

"  No,  I  ain't  eat  it.  I  ain't  no  goat!  "  and 
the  man  buried  his  face  in  his  paper.  For  him 
the  incident  was  closed. 

Here  there  came  a  still  small  voice  floating 
out  from  the  lips  of  the  Dear  Old  Lady,  slowly, 
one  word  at  a  time  :  — 

"Ain't  you  set  on  it  ?  " 

"Set  on  it!   IVhat/" 

She  was  on  her  feet  now,  pulling  her  skirt 
around,  craning  her  neck,  her  face  getting 
whiter  and  whiter  as  the  truth  dawned  upon  her. 

"  Oh,  Lordy  !  Jes'  look  at  it !  However  did 
I  come  to!  Oh!" 

210 


A  POT  OF  JAM 

"Here,  take  my  handkerchief,"  murmured 
the  Dear  Old  Lady.  "  Let  me  help  wipe  it 
off."   And  she  laid  down  her  knitting. 

Oh,  but  it  was  a  beautiful  stain !  A  large, 
irregular,  map-like  stain,  with  the  counties 
plotted  in  bits  of  ham  and  the  townships  in 
smears  of  bread,  with  little  rivers  of  butter  run- 
ning everywhere.  One  dear,  beloved  rill  in  an 
ecstasy  of  delight  had  skipped  a  fold  and  was 
pushing  a  heap  of  butter  ahead  of  it  down  a 
side  plait. 

I  hugged  myself  with  the  joy  of  it  all.  If  it 
had  only  been  a  crock  she  had  sat  in,  with 
sandwiches  enough  to  supply  a  picnic. 

And  the  stain  ! 

That  should  have  been  as  large  as  the  State 
of  Rhode  Island. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U  .  S   •   A 


MB 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGONAL  UBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  779  644     4 


